


Pack Up; Don't Stray

by the_deep_magic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Canon-Typical Violence, Claiming, Collars, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Implied Underage, M/M, Minor Character Death, Ownership, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Possessive Behavior, Scenting, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU – Werewolves are an enslaved underclass, collared and tagged by human masters.  Detective Stilinski’s on duty the night they bring in an untagged stray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Pack Up; Don't Stray](https://archiveofourown.org/works/955635) by [Schwesterchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwesterchen/pseuds/Schwesterchen)



> This is by far the longest and most ambitious thing I’ve ever written, and my eternal thanks go out to aliassmith for the much-needed cheerleading when I was ready to chuck the whole damned computer out the window. I've fiddled with the canon timeline a bit, though hopefully that will be self-evident. Title from The Yeah Yeah Yeah's "Maps." 
> 
> Non-archive warnings for the whole fic are up there in the tags, but I'll put specific warnings for each chapter. For this chapter: themes of slavery (ownership, tagging/tattooing, collaring)

“Detective Stilinski?  We caught another one.”

Stiles looked up from his desk, torn between the delight of anything that distracted him from the paperwork Scott had stuck him with _again_ and the slightly sick feeling he got from dealing with… this.

“Lahey, can’t you just… call his owner?” Stiles spat out, hating the words.

Isaac looked worried.  At least he didn’t treat the wers like some of the officers did.  “He’s collared, but…”  Isaac leaned in, his voice dropping.  “He’s not tagged.  And I thought you would want to know before somebody called Services.”

“Yeah, no, I’ll handle it,” Stiles said, trying to give Isaac a grateful smile.  They got strays in here from time to time, but usually it was simply a matter of checking the tag register and calling the owners to come pick them up.  Those were always hard for Stiles to watch, since the wers didn’t just wander off from their owners without good reason, but supervising a transfer to State Werewolf Control Services was something else altogether.  The first time he’d seen one, everything had started to go gray around the edges as the wer was dragged, howling for his life, into the van and Stiles had to _run_ to the bathroom to have a quiet panic attack in one of the stalls.  If the other officers had seen him, he never would have heard the end of it.  Probably never would have made detective.

But after two years, he did, and he’d gotten his own office (well, he shared with Scott, but since the new baby had come along, Stiles had the office more and more to himself), though he hadn’t had a panic attack since.  Thankfully, they’d only had to call Services while he was on shift a handful of times – four, precisely four – and while Stiles now knew how to prepare for it, that didn’t make the process any easier.  He knew what happened to uncollared or untagged wers once they were taken in by Services.  The wers themselves knew.  None of them came back from the compound.

And the few that were both uncollared _and_ untagged?  If they were ever taken out of the woods, it was in a body bag.

Stiles looked longingly at the paperwork on his desk; it seemed so appealing now.

Isaac had put the wer in the farthest holding cell – possibly as a safety measure, but more likely because he didn’t want any of the officers to see the wer wasn’t tagged.  It was extremely unusual to see a wer with a collar – silver alloy, kept them from shifting completely – but not a tattoo bearing its owner’s name, and there was a good chance none of the others had noticed the tag’s absence.  That bought Stiles some time, at least.

He was prepared for the wer to be pretty filthy – the strays all hid in the woods until they were caught, and it looked like this one had been out there a long time.  But even though his leather jacket was torn nearly to shreds, Stiles could tell it had once been good quality.  Same with his shoes.  It wasn’t a huge shock; usually the richer the master, the crueler they were.  Entitlement issues on top of what was essentially slave ownership – great combination there.

But Stiles was completely unprepared for the way the wer’s gaze snapped straight to him, hard and angry.  Most of the ones that got dragged into the station hadn’t gotten very far and were more broken than anything else.  But not this one.  This one wasn’t just defiant; he was _powerful_.  No wonder he’d stayed hidden for so long. 

Stiles’ heart shot into his throat, and he was well aware of the danger.  Even unshifted, they were stronger than humans – Stiles had once seen a female wer who looked emaciated to the point of death throw one of the stockier officers ten feet in the air when she was threatened.  God only knew what this one could do, especially while cornered.

Still, Stiles didn’t reach for his taser.  The wer was shackled and he wasn’t moving to attack; he was merely staring Stiles down.  Stiles took a few deep breaths, let his heart rate slow, and though the wer’s gaze certainly didn’t soften, nor did he display any further aggression.

“Hello,” Stiles said as calmly as he could.  “I’m Detective Stilinski.  You can call me Stiles.”

 _That_ threw the wer off.  Stiles just barely bit back on a laugh at the way one of his thick dark eyebrows lifted in utter incredulity for just a second, before dropping back down in line with his scowl.  Very few people, including their owners, were on a first name basis with wers.

Stiles relaxed a little; the wer was still staring him down, but now he looked distinctly… curious.  “What’s your name?” Stiles’ hazarded.

That look went from curious to downright suspicious.  Okay, so maybe it was a little odd to try to strike up chit-chat with an imprisoned wer, but Stiles had to start somewhere.  He wanted to let the wer know that Stiles was on his side.

Stiles didn’t have to glance up to know where the video camera was located in the far corner of the cell.  Since this wasn’t an interrogation room, it didn’t have audio, but Stiles knew very well that some of the detectives could get incriminating material off the tapes by lip-reading; Stiles was one of them.  He shifted carefully around, trying to make it appear as though he was getting a better look at the wer while subtly turning his back to the camera.

“Listen,” Stiles whispered, knowing the wer would be able to hear him.  “We’ve caught you and documented that you’re here, and you have no tag.  Am I right?”

The wer slid the sleeve of his shirt up his left wrist, and even through the grime, Stiles could tell there was no tattoo.  It didn’t make sense – he was collared and had, at one point, been decently dressed, yet his owner had never tagged him.  All wers were supposed to be tagged, collared, and registered before their first shift, sometime around puberty.

“I’m assuming you know what that means could happen to you,” Stiles continued.  “But since you’ve got a collar, only me and Officer Lahey, the one who brought you in, know you’re untagged.  You following me?”

The wer glowered, and once again, Stiles found himself biting back a laugh.  Despite the high stakes, something about this whole scene was objectively ridiculous, like Stiles was having an entire conversation with the wer’s eyebrows.  “All right, smartass,” Stiles went on.  “I have a friend who can help you.  Get you to a sanctuary up north.  But to do that, you’re going to have to come with me.”

The suspicion was back, fiercer than before, and Stiles didn’t blame him.  Officially, the Alaskan sanctuary was just a rumor.  It wasn’t until Stiles had actually sat down and had a serious conversation with Dr. Deaton that he’d found out it was real.  It sure as hell wasn’t easy to get to, but it was real.

“Yeah, I know it sounds—” Stiles took a step forward and froze immediately, because the wer’s eyes had flashed red the second Stiles had tried to approach him and fuck, he wasn’t just dealing with an untagged wer.  He was dealing with an untagged _alpha_.

If Services got a hold of him, they would put him down before they even got him to the compound.  Stiles had no idea how Isaac had managed to take him into custody.  He wasn’t even wearing an alpha collar, which was noticeably thicker and heavier to keep the stronger wers under control.

But the mysteries that were rapidly piling up would have to wait until later, because the longer this wer was in the station, the greater the danger that Services would get involved.  Stiles didn’t move any closer, but he did stand his ground.  “Okay, you _really_ need to not do the eye thing in front of anyone else here.  I’m not saying that as a threat, that’s just how it is.  I definitely can’t get you out of here if anyone sees you’re an alpha.”

The wer’s eyes returned to normal – some shade of green, or brown, Stiles couldn’t quite tell, though it was a little alarming how much he wanted to keep looking.  But Stiles could see the wer didn’t quite believe what he was saying.  Hell, if their positions had been reversed, _Stiles_ probably wouldn’t believe anything he was saying.

“I know you have no reason to trust me, but you also know that I’m risking a hell of a lot by doing this.  Not just my job – I’ve heard alphas can get claws and fangs out even with that collar on, and I don’t have a whole lot of faith in those shackles either, all right?  Believe me, I am not underestimating your capacity to tear my throat out.”

The wer’s lips pursed and Stiles would swear he looked almost amused for a second – but just for a second, and then the scowl was back.  Logically, Stiles should have gotten the hell out of there as soon as he’d seen the wer’s eyes go red.  The chances of him safely transporting a fugitive alpha, even with no owner looking for him, were practically zero anyway, and god only knew how feral this one was, having spent so long in the wild.  But the whole reason Stiles was doing any of this was that the wers were at least half _human_ , even if they were treated like animals so often that some of them started acting like animals.  But Stiles had never known an animal to sort-of-almost-smirk at one of his lousy jokes.

“That’s the best I can offer you,” Stiles said.  “You want to do this?  Without, you know, the throat-ripping?”

Stiles was expecting a nod at most, so he almost jumped when the wer actually said, “Okay,” his voice rusty and uncertain like it hadn’t formed human words in a long time.

With a sigh of relief, Stiles checked his watch.  “Okay, I go off shift in twenty anyway, so I’m going to play this like I’m escorting you back to your owner.  Try to keep your eyes down and ignore what anyone says.  They’re not all… friendly.  But I figure you haven’t survived this long without learning how to adapt, so, y’know, suck up the alpha-ness for the next five minutes and let’s you and me try to get out of this building alive.”

This time the wer’s expression was a distinct mixture of amusement at war with the scowl, and Stiles found his eyes tracing the strong line of the wer’s jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones.  Underneath all the dirt and grit, he was… attractive.  _Really_ attractive.  Stiles swallowed hard; he knew what the attractive ones were usually used for.

But Stiles kept his resolve.  He offered a hand out to the wer – a simple human gesture, but also an indisputable show of trust, considering the possibility of claws – and the wer took it.  Once he was standing, Stiles put a hand on the back of his neck.  “I’m going to have to manhandle you a little to make this look convincing, so if you could please not maul me until we get out to the car, that would be terrific.”

Stiles was pretty sure the dry, cracked sound the wer made was an attempt at a laugh.

&&&

Stiles would have held his breath the entire way through the police station if that weren’t the most suspicious thing he could possibly do.  Instead, he forced himself to speak to just about everyone he passed like he usually did, which meant asking Boyd how it was hanging, saying something extremely workplace-inappropriate to Reyes and listen to her come back with something twice as dirty, and loudly announcing to Lahey that the wer’s rich-bitch owner couldn’t be assed to come and get him, so Stiles was going to have to escort him back.

“You, uh, want some company?” Isaac asked nervously.

Isaac was sympathetic to the wers, and he had to know that this one was an alpha, but Stiles hadn’t told him or anyone else about Deaton’s connections, so Stiles had to play it off the best he could.  “Nah, I got it.  This one’s a good boy, aren’t you?”

He squeezed a little tighter around the wer’s neck, just for show, and it was risky as hell, but the wer went along with it and bowed his head even lower.  Stiles prayed he wouldn’t pay for the “good boy” comment later.  As it was, he was just happy to have avoided running into Chief Martin on the way out.  She could sniff out Stiles’ bullshit like she was a wer herself.

Stiles led the wer, still in shackles, to the passenger side of his Jeep.  He should really be putting the wer in the back of a squad car, but no one was around to see and he hated leaving his Jeep at the station overnight, and besides, if the wer was going to kill him, that pathetic metal grating wouldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.

But the wer went willingly into Stiles’ Jeep, even when Stiles acted unthinkingly on years of cop instinct and pressed his hand against the wer’s head so he wouldn’t knock it on the doorframe getting into the car.  Even though his hair was as filthy as the rest of him, it was soft as silk and Stiles yanked his hand away before he could give into the urge to stroke it.

Don’t pet stray wers.  It wasn’t the first rule in the police training manual, but it probably should be.  Somewhere in the top ten, at least.

The tension kept Stiles’ spine ramrod straight until they were well away from the station.  Not that he was out of danger – if anything, he was _more_ likely to be slaughtered while alone with the wer – but he sensed that the wer was just as happy to get out of there as he was.  Not that Stiles could tell by the expression on his face, which was still as sour as it had been the entire time.

The radio in the Jeep was busted again, so Stiles had to rely on himself to fill the silence.  At least there was someone in the passenger seat this time.  “So, uh, sorry about that ‘good boy’ thing.  I know that probably pissed you off.  Would’ve pissed _me_ off.  But thanks for going along with it.  If you’d like to insult me later on, you get one freebie.  No, no, don’t use it right now.  Really _think_ about it.  Get to know me first, analyze my mockable qualities.  If you’re having trouble coming up with anything, I can provide suggestions.”

Another possible-laugh.  Encouraged, Stiles just kept talking.  About the weather, about his job, about his mortifying crush on his boss (which, come to think of it, Stiles had only ever admitted to Scott), though she would probably not hesitate to simply shoot him in the kneecap if she ever found out.  And he’d be _lucky_ to get it in the kneecap.

Before Stiles knew it, they were pulling into his garage – and thank God he’d cleared out room in there for his actual car, because nosy Mrs. McClanahan next door would not miss him bringing a shackled, fugitive wer through the front door.

Once Stiles had closed the garage door behind them with the remote and shut off the engine, he let out the longest sigh in the history of sighs and dropped his head onto the steering wheel with an audible (and slightly painful) clunk.  What the fuck had he gotten himself into?  He’d talked about this with Deaton before, about the possibility of helping a stray get to the sanctuary, but he’d never actually done it.  Much less brought a stray, untagged alpha into his _home_.  Where he slept like a rock.  He barely woke up for his alarm, let alone a wer that could creep into his room in the middle of the night to—

“Derek.”

Stiles jumped so high the top of his head actually hit the ceiling of the Jeep.  “W-what?”

“That’s my name,” the wer said slowly, as if he were testing what it felt like to make words again.  “Derek Hale.”

Stiles knew his jaw was wide open, but damned if he could do anything about it.  “Uh, hi, Derek,” he said after a very long, awkward moment.  “Pleased to smuggle you.  Want to come in?”

&&&

Stiles listened to the sound of the shower running as he pawed through his drawers for something that might fit Derek.  The wer wasn’t much taller than Stiles, but even under the filthy clothes, which would have to be disposed of, he was obviously bigger in just about every other way.

Derek had seemed pleased at the prospect of taking a shower (though it was sort of hard to tell through the perma-scowl), but when Stiles had shown him the bathroom, Derek had just sort of stared at the faucet like he could will it to turn on with the sheer force of his rage.  It had taken Stiles several babbling minutes to realize that Derek probably didn’t know how to turn it on.  He’d been out in the woods so long… At least, Stiles hoped that was the reason.  Because the other option was that he had never been allowed to use indoor plumbing, and that thought made Stiles ill.

He quickly set the towel down on the counter and reached for the tap.  “This one’s kind of tricky,” he said, not quite meeting Derek’s eyes as he knelt to fiddle with the faucet.  “You’ve got to pull this knob out first.  It sticks, so you kind of have to put your weight into it.  Well, _you_ won’t, but I do.  Then you can adjust the temperature with this lever.  Got pretty good hot water here, so take as long as you want.”  Stiles forced himself to look Derek in the eye as he stood.  “I’ll try to find you something clean to wear.”

Derek looked like he might possibly try to say “thank you,” but the words wouldn’t quite form, so he just nodded instead.

“Okey-doke,” Stiles said stupidly.  “I’ll just… leave you to it, then.”

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles finally dug up an old, oversized t-shirt and a baggy pair of sweatpants just as the shower shut off.  Stiles was trying very hard to wait for Derek outside the bathroom without appearing to be hovering, but he had a low success rate when it came to looking casual.  So when Derek opened the door, wearing nothing but a towel and backed by a cloud of warm, fragrant steam, Stiles jumped even higher than he had in the car.

“These…” he started, holding out the clothes.  Until he got a good look at Derek in nothing but a towel, and the clothes nearly hit the floor.  Stiles clearly needed to start a workout regimen that involved running through the woods, because Derek was _ripped_ , muscle on top of muscle.  And he didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious about being half naked in front of a stranger.

Make that half-naked and wet – there was a patch of skin on his right shoulder that he’d missed with the towel.  A droplet of water ran down over his bicep and Stiles was struck by the sudden urge to lick it away.  And there was no way he wasn’t blushing like a schoolgirl, so he looked down at the clothes in his hands again.

Stiles’ clothes, which Derek would be wearing.  On his body.  Nope, not helping.

“These are going to be too small.  But, uh, can’t have you going around naked.  No.  That would be bad.  Because of… reasons.  So, sorry about the clothes.  But here they are.  And I’ll leave now.  So you can put them on.”

Stiles glanced up as he shoved the clothes at Derek’s chest, blushing harder when he realized he hadn’t picked out any underwear for Derek.  But he felt like it would be weird to mention now, plus did he really want to share his underwear with…?

In a frantic attempt to derail that train of thought, Stiles announced, a little too loudly, “Tomorrow!  We will get you clothes.  Or I will, since we probably shouldn’t have, like, a Girl’s Day Out at the mall.  Not really my thing.  And I’m guessing it’s not your thing, either.”  Christ almighty, now he was babbling about Derek’s “thing,” _abort, abort_.  “So, you just put those on and I’ll be in the kitchen, doing something that is not talking.”

He would swear that the little twitch of Derek’s lip was almost a smile.  But it might well have been almost a sneer, so Stiles hightailed it out of the hallway to let Derek… put on Stiles’ clothes.  Sans underwear.  Oh fuck.

Once in the kitchen, which was entirely, blessedly devoid of Derek’s naked chest, Stiles could think again.  Even if the clothes fit, they would still need to get Derek some of his own.  Nothing he’d been wearing was salvageable, and Stiles didn’t know how long he’d need to stay before Deaton could get him north.  Fuck, right, Stiles had to call Deaton first thing in the morning.

Stiles grabbed some leftover chili out of the fridge and wondered if he should heat any up for Derek.  Would Derek even want to eat it?  If he’d been living in the woods for so long, he’d probably been eating… well, whatever he could catch.  And building a fire to cook it would only attract attention, if he even wanted to cook it.  Okay, not something Stiles wanted to think about.  So, grocery shopping, too.  Probably in the meat department.

And of course he _would_ be thinking “meat department” just as Derek walked into the kitchen.  Clean and in Stiles’ clothes, he looked younger – he was actually probably about Stiles’ age.  The sweatpants weren’t too bad, but the t-shirt stretched tight across Derek’s chest, prompting Stiles to prevent himself from saying something stupid by stuffing his mouth with chili.  Scalding hot chili straight from the microwave.

Stiles’ eyes watered, but he managed to swallow it anyway, feeling it burn all the way down.  He gulped down half his glass of water, fully aware that Derek was staring at him the whole time, before gesturing weakly at the chili.  “Want some?” he squeaked.  Probably not the best way to introduce Derek to his cooking.

But Derek just shook his head, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.  “Not hungry.”

“Right, okay,” Stiles said.  Derek was just standing there, staring at him and looking extremely uncomfortable.  He was barely moving, but he gave the impression of wanting to fidget out of his own skin.  “You alright?” Stiles asked, not quite knowing what else to do with an extremely uneasy-looking alpha in his kitchen.

Derek glanced down at the clothes, silent for a moment, and Stiles was about to interject that his old sweatpants and Green Lantern t-shirt weren’t _that_ bad; in fact they had been with Stiles a long time and he was rather fond of them, when Derek muttered, “I’m not used to wearing clothes that smell like someone else.”

Huh, Stiles hadn’t even thought about that.  The clothes were clean, but so old that even years of detergent probably couldn’t mask the scent of Stiles’ skin.  Stiles hoped he didn’t stink too badly, but considering what Derek had been wearing in the station, Stiles’ smell couldn’t be all that rank.

Or maybe it was all relative and the smell of humans in general just made Derek uncomfortable.  Stiles could hardly blame him.  He’d liked to have asked, but that previous sentence was by far the most Derek had said to him in one go, and now that he was clean, Stiles could see just how exhausted Derek looked.

“Right, well, not much I can do about that tonight,” Stiles said.  “But I’ll get you some new stuff tomorrow.  Stuff that doesn’t smell like anyone.  Except maybe Chinese sweatshop workers?  Uh, I’ll try to avoid those.  But, here, let me show you the guest room.  I don’t remember the last time somebody slept on those sheets, so they shouldn’t be too bad.”

Derek nodded and followed Stiles into the bedroom across the hall from his own.  Stiles kept the bed made up with clean sheets, though he wasn’t lying when he’d told Derek it was rarely used.  Once again, Derek came to a dead halt about three feet into the room, staring blankly at the bed.  Stiles bit his lip to keep from asking when the last time Derek had slept in an actual bed was.  There was a very real chance that he hadn’t been allowed to wherever he was before he’d escaped into the woods. 

Instead, Stiles edged his way around Derek and back to the door.  “All right, I’ll leave you alone.  I’ll probably be up for a while, so if you need anything, just yell.  First thing tomorrow, I’ll work on getting… stuff… straightened out.”

Again, Derek nodded mutely, taking in the surroundings of the room slowly.  Stiles had a brief moment of wondering whether there was anything in the room – or in the house – worth stealing, but even if Derek somehow managed to make off with Stiles’ TV and laptop, what would he do with them?  They wouldn’t be of any use in the woods, and Derek couldn’t exactly walk into a pawn shop.

No, if Derek was going to do anything, he’d simply run away.  Hopefully without feeling the need to slash Stiles’ throat on the way out.  Stiles didn’t really get a violent vibe from Derek (not directed at him, anyway), but then again, he’d never had a wer in his house before, let alone a slightly-feral, untagged alpha.

With an awkward little “good night,” he left Derek sniffing the comforter and went back to the kitchen to finish the chili.  After that, he cracked open his laptop, but he didn’t want to e-mail Deaton and leave a paper trail – even an electronic one – and it wasn’t as though Googling “werewolf underground railroad” would get him any reliable information.  So he logged into the Beacon Hills PD record system and checked for any unsolved reports of missing wers.  There were hundreds, going back years, but none that seemed to fit Derek’s description and definitely no reports of a missing alpha.  Still, even without a tag, Derek must have had an owner at some point, and it was unlikely he’d traveled far from wherever he’d escaped without getting picked up by Services.  Not without human help, anyway, and if there was one thing Stiles was sure of, it was that Derek hadn’t spent much time around humans in the recent past.

Stiles brewed himself some coffee (decaf) and spent a while making lists.  He got the size of Derek’s clothes off their barely legible labels before stuffing the filthy things in a trash bag and taking them out to the curb.  Not even Mrs. McClanahan had stooped to rifling through his garbage yet.  So Stiles made a list of things Derek would probably need.  That included food, but Stiles honestly didn’t know what to do about that without asking Derek, so he settled for writing “MEAT” and underlining it twice.

Fuck, he hoped Deaton hadn’t been blowing smoke about the sanctuary and his connections with people who could get Derek there.  Stiles had no reason to doubt him, but Deaton had been closer with his parents than he ever had with Stiles, and with a stray wer in his guest bedroom, everything seemed a lot less certain. 

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing he had someone he could call.  Scott was probably trying to sneak in a few hours sleep between feedings and diaper changes and Stiles wasn’t about to wake him up.  Besides, despite being his partner and best friend, he’d never really talked to Scott about the wers.  He and his wife didn’t own any themselves, but Allison’s family probably owned the largest number of wers in the county. 

Stiles had a hard time imagining Allison fitting any of those rumors that were floating around about the Argent family, but there was no getting around the fact that she was raised in a completely different environment than Stiles had been.  And Scott, bless his besotted head, would hear “stray wer” and think only that Allison and her family could help. 

So there was no calling Scott, and Stiles had involved Isaac in this enough already.  So far neither of them had done anything outright illegal, but there was a good chance their jobs would be in jeopardy if anyone figured out what had really happened at the station.

By the time Stiles’ coffee mug had run dry, it was past two in the morning and his eyeballs felt dry as sandpaper.  He tucked his lists safely into his pockets and rinsed out the mug before heading to his bedroom.  The door across the hall was open just a crack, and Stiles couldn’t help but peek inside.

He hadn’t been certain Derek would even be able to sleep here – if the clothes had been a problem, Stiles was sure there were probably issues with territory or something that he couldn’t even begin to guess at.  Sure enough, the bed was empty.  But Derek had just pulled the comforter off and made a small nest of blankets on the floor, where he was currently fast asleep.

&&&

It wasn’t as though Stiles had forgotten he was harboring a fugitive wer, or even that he didn’t expect said wer to wake up before he did – any being that lived in the woods probably rose with the sun, something Stiles did _not_ do on his day off.  He just wasn’t prepared to wander into the kitchen to see Derek scarfing down handfuls of hamburger meat.

Raw hamburger meat.

Derek’s head snapped up at the sound of Stiles’ less-than-stealthy footsteps, and his irises were ringed in red.

“Holy god!” Stiles yelped before he could stop himself, but he froze and put his hands up in the air.  Belatedly, he hoped that wasn’t some kind of sign of aggression to wers, like Stiles was trying to make himself look bigger than he was, but Derek’s eyes had faded back to their normal not-quite-hazel.  Apparently he had realized Stiles wasn’t trying to poach his kill.  From the refrigerator.

Stiles was far too undercaffeinated for this.  “Sorry, sorry, but you really shouldn’t— You’re going to get worms or something.  Wait, can you even get worms?”

For someone who wasn’t used to communicating with humans, Derek was surprisingly adept at insulting Stiles using only his eyebrows.

“Right,” Stiles said, edging carefully around Derek, trying not to turn his back as he inched toward the coffeemaker.  “So you just go ahead and enjoy that, then.  Actually, you know, it’s kind of a relief, having a guest I don’t have to cook for.”

And yes, that was in fact a slightly-amused look he got from Derek, who finished off the meat at a much slower pace while Stiles brewed his coffee.  And at least he’d eaten it over the sink, so he hadn’t made much of a mess.  Made it much easier for Stiles to pretend there was absolutely nothing bizarre going on in his kitchen as he started scrambling up some eggs for breakfast.

He didn’t realize he was lost in his own little world until suddenly Derek was _right there_ over his shoulder, and Stiles nearly sent the pan flying.  Stiles spun around, about to tell Derek he needed to learn to use his words, when Derek actually… did.

“I like eggs, too,” he said.  Then his eyes flicked briefly toward the pan and Stiles definitely wasn’t imagining the slight uptick at the corner of Derek’s mouth.  “Cooked.”

“You want some now?” Stiles asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice, because despite the recent obliteration of a pound of hamburger meat, Derek hadn’t eaten last night and Stiles didn’t know how much wers actually ate, anyway.  Apparently quite a bit, because Derek nodded.  He shook his head at the cheese, though, so Stiles waited until his half of the eggs were on his own plate before sprinkling on the cheddar.

Conversation over breakfast was limited to what Derek wanted from the grocery store.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t all meat-based.  Stiles figured Derek would have to ease back into eating human food, particularly the processed crap (though Stiles was a big fan of the processed crap), but without talking to Deaton, Stiles didn’t know how long it would be before Derek could be moved to the sanctuary.  Or even what the sanctuary was like, whether it was more city or nature preserve.  Most of the wers in the county lived essentially like humans – but it wasn’t as though they were given a choice.  Stiles wondered whether, left to their own, they’d prefer to live like Derek had in the woods.

But it was hard enough to get Derek to ask for the food he wanted, let alone grill him on wer culture.  Derek had been on his own so long that it was probably humiliating, relying on a human to do something as basic as procure food, so Stiles tried his best to be patient with Derek’s grumpiness.  It was a work in progress, but Stiles was rewarded when, at the very end, Derek requested a peach.  Unbelievably, his voice went almost shy, as though he were asking for something forbidden.  Stiles made sure to underline “peaches” three times.

Stiles dressed and got ready to go out, all the while debating what to say to Derek.  If he’d wanted to run, he’d probably have done it during the night, and if he could hide himself in a forest for months, he could probably manage to lay low in Stiles’ tiny house.

“Okay, I’m headed out for food and clothes,” Stiles said as he grabbed his lists and his wallet.  “Just make yourself at home.  You’re welcome to anything in the fridge.  And you can—”  First Stiles glanced at his Xbox, which… no, probably not Derek’s forte.  Then his collection of DVDs, but somehow he didn’t see Derek negotiating the three remote controls it took to get them to play.

Derek surprised Stiles on several levels by asking, “Do you have books?”

“You know how to read?” Stiles asked, before clamping his hand over his stupid, stupid mouth.  Stiles had practically invented his own strain of Foot-In-Mouth Syndrome over the years, but the scowl that met him had him flushing an obscene shade of red.  Yes, many of the wers that came through the station were illiterate, but it was insulting to just assume.

But eventually Derek just rolled his eyes and said “Yes,” having apparently spent long enough in Stiles’ company already to perfect an exasperated tone of voice.

“Great!” Stiles exclaimed.  “Feel free to raid the shelves in my room.  Hope you’re a fan of old-school sci-fi.”

Derek just shrugged, but that was infinitely better than the scowl.  “Great,” Stiles said again, not quite managing to conceal his relief.  “I’ll be back in a few hours.  Just don’t open the shades on the dining room window.  Mrs. McClanahan will want to know why I haven’t introduced her to my new boyfriend yet.”

At that, Derek gave him an odd look, but Stiles was no stranger to odd looks, so it was his turn to shrug before he went out the door.

&&&

Clothes shopping for a grown man other than himself was a new and slightly surreal experience for Stiles.  His own clothing was primarily selected for its functionality.  He figured Derek would probably want the same, especially if he was literally going to be running soon – clothes that were comfortable, inconspicuous, and warm – but Stiles had difficulty imagining Derek in Stiles’ own selection of layers of plaid.

He grabbed several gray and black Henleys and t-shirts, as well as two pairs of dark blue jeans.  Stiles regretted that he wouldn’t be able to replace Derek’s nice leather jacket – not on a small-town detective’s salary – but he was able to find a dark, lightweight coat that wasn’t too expensive.  He knew wers were less susceptible than humans to extreme temperatures, but he wanted Derek to have something to protect him from the elements up north.

The clothes shopping turned out to be the easy part.  Afterwards, Stiles sat in his car and called Dr. Deaton.  It was a call he hadn’t especially wanted to make in front of Derek, and though he wasn’t sure exactly how sensitive wer hearing was, he figured Derek would probably be able to overhear them from anywhere in the house.

Stiles called Deaton on his cell rather than the office line and half-expected the call to go to voicemail, but Deaton picked up.  He must have already had Stiles’ number, because he answered with “Detective Stilinski!  To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Stiles had planned this whole conversation out in his head – multiple times – but now that it was happening, it was hard to get even the preliminary words out.  “Um, hi.  You can call me Stiles if you want.  Especially because this isn’t, uh, detective business.”

“I see,” Deaton said evenly.

“Do you have a few minutes?  Alone?”

“As it would happen, I do.”  Stiles could hear a door opening and closing – then the click of a lock.  Deaton must have remembered their last conversation, even though it was months ago.

“I have a… stray.  He was brought into the station last night, untagged.  But he had a collar, so I was able to get him past the other officers and back to my house.”

Deaton was silent for a moment and Stiles could practically _hear_ him frowning.  “This isn’t something I can arrange on the fly, Stiles.”

“I know!  Believe me, I know.  But it’s not like I had any warning, and if I’d kept him in a holding cell, someone would find out he didn’t have a tag and report him to Services.  And he’s been out in the woods for a long time – you can tell he hasn’t spoken to a human in months, maybe years.”

“You brought a feral werewolf into your house?”

“I told you, I didn’t have any choice.  And he’s not feral, not exactly.  He can speak just fine, it’s just that most of the time he… doesn’t.  And he asked me if I had any books for him to read.”

Deaton sighed.  “All right.  But this is going to take a few days to arrange.  Have you talked about this with him?  Are you sure he’s not going to take off back into the woods?  Because I’m not in the business of capturing anyone who doesn’t want to be captured.”

“Yes, I’ve talked with him, and if he was going to run, he would have done it last night.  He just wants to get away from here.”

“Well, he’s your responsibility until I can secure transport.  Don’t let him out of your house – in the woods, he could probably mask his scent, but if he was living in a home with other werewolves before he escaped, they’ll know his scent well enough to track him.”

“No, yeah, no leisurely evening strolls, got it,” Stiles said, sighing with relief before he realized he hadn’t told Deaton everything yet.  “Um, sir?”

“Oh lord,” Deaton muttered.  “You haven’t called me ‘sir’ since you were 13.  This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

“This wer,” Stiles said haltingly.  “He’s collared and he hasn’t been aggressive.  Not with me, not even with the officer who brought him in.”

“But?”

“But he’s an alpha.”

There was dead silence over the line, and Stiles caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and realized he was visibly cringing.  Finally, Deaton groaned.  “Only you, Stiles.  Only you.  That’s going to take longer than a few days.”

“But you can do it?  Or find someone who can?”

“Probably, but it’s not going to be easy.  _Fuck_.”  Stiles had never heard Deaton swear before and it kind of ruined his victory fist pump.  “Stiles?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do me a favor and try not to piss him off.  For some reason, I’m fond of you and I’d rather you didn’t get dismembered.”

“Yes sir.  Play nice, stay fully membered.”

“And wait for me to call you.  I don’t have any reason to believe I’m being monitored, but some of my contacts are… skittish.”

Stiles swallowed.  Deaton was really the only one he could talk to about this, who had the most accurate information about wers.  “What if it’s an emergency?”

Deaton laughed humorlessly.  “If it’s an emergency involving an untagged alpha?  I doubt there’s anything I can do to help.”

&&&

Stiles took his time at the grocery store, and then ran every errand he could think of to keep from going back home.  Despite what he’d told Deaton, he was half-convinced Derek had already taken off.  He had no reason to trust Stiles, and he’d obviously managed on his own just fine for quite a while.  Even if he hadn’t run off, he wasn’t exactly the world’s best conversationalist, and despite popular opinion, there was only so much silence Stiles could fill.  Plus, Stiles had so many questions, and there was no way Derek would answer them all.  If he felt like he was being interrogated, he probably _would_ run.

There was so much Stiles didn’t know about wers.  His parents had told him some, but they’d never owned one or been close friends with anyone who did, so Stiles had never thought to ask.  And now that he needed to, he couldn’t.  He checked the bookstore, but all they had were _Proper Care for Your Wer_ and _Wers for Dummies_ – all stuff about how to keep them in line, keep them safe and “happy.”  Stiles pictured Derek calling him “master” and felt ill.

Even the library wasn’t much better.  There was some history on the discovery of the wers, how they’d been subdued and turned into “servants” in some books, “slaves” in others.  But even the most sympathetic authors seemed like they’d never talked to an actual wer.  The books on lore were worse, even less reliable than the crap Stiles had found online.  Some of it was probably true, but he had no way of telling fact from fiction.

Everywhere he went, he was suddenly hyperaware of the wers, in their silver control collars, accompanying their human masters.  There was so much Stiles had never seen before because he hadn’t been looking.  Before, he would have noticed if someone was abusing a wer in public and tried to step in if he could, but, like domestic violence, most of that took place behind closed doors.  Most people seemed to treat them like servants, and the wers silently obeyed the orders to get this or that off a shelf, keep an eye on an easily-distracted kid.

But Stiles had never really watched what happened when two wers with different owners passed each other.  Most made fleeting, furtive eye contact.  Some surreptitiously sniffed each other.  And some played out an act of dominance and submission.  In the bookstore, Stiles was pretty sure he saw an actual challenge between two female wers.  There was glaring and posturing and baring of teeth, and action that wasn’t quite human, even without fangs.  But it was over in the blink of an eye, one wer backing down and tilting her head to the side to bare her throat.  Stiles hadn’t even had time to break out in a cold sweat before the “winner” was moving down the aisle with her owner.

Stiles glanced around, but no one else seemed to have noticed, and he wondered how many hundreds of times that had happened in his presence and he just hadn’t _seen_.  Something in his chest burned with shame – it was his job to observe things, and he’d never even given the wers around him a second glance.  But now it was all he could see.  It was like hearing the barest strains of music in a loud, crowded room; Stiles couldn’t pay attention to anything else until he figured out what the song was.

Twice, Stiles came close enough to a wer that they immediately dropped their eyes and took a step back.  It took until his trip to the library to realize that they could probably smell Derek on him.  Stiles had no idea their noses were that sensitive – he hadn’t had any physical contact with Derek since leading him out of the station the previous night, and Stiles had showered since then.

Still, it seemed that if he got close enough, he must smell like an alpha – maybe their scents were particularly strong.  He was going to have to remember that; the few people who owned alphas rarely took them out, especially for something as mundane as a shopping trip, but Stiles shuddered to think what would happen if he encountered one, smelling like a rival.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: themes of slavery, references to violence and minor character deaths

When Stiles got back home, he found Derek curled up on the couch, looking to be about three-quarters of the way through _The Illustrated Man_.  Stiles held up the shopping bags and grinned.  “It’s absolutely your lucky day.  Hawaiian shirts were two-for-one.”

Okay, now Stiles knew what _murderous_ looked like on Derek’s face.  Good to know.  Didn’t slow Stiles down any, though.  “Oh my god, lighten up a little.  And give me _some_ credit.  I know that you’re more of a… a monochromatic guy.”  He set the bags down at Derek’s feet.  “You can go try those on whenever, let me know if something doesn’t fit or otherwise offends your delicate sensibilities.  I’ve got to get the groceries out of the car.”

As Stiles was finishing stashing the groceries in their proper place in the fridge and cupboards, he heard the stairs creak behind him.  It was deliberate, because Stiles knew very well that Derek could sneak up behind him without making a sound if he wanted to.  When Stiles turned around, the sight made him drop a large can of tomato sauce right on his foot and didn’t even have the presence of mind to say “ouch.”

Because the clothes fit.  Hot _damn_ , did the clothes fit.  If this detective thing didn’t work out, Stiles might have a future in tailoring, or personal shopping.  That was a thing, right?  Personal shopping?  Maybe Stiles should list that under “special skills” on his resume.

Stiles had somehow managed not to say any of that out loud, but he _had_ been standing there with his mouth hanging open for an inexcusably long time, and he knew he was turning redder by the second.  Derek glanced down at himself, face betraying the tiniest hint of uncertainty.  “Are these okay?”

 _Okay_ wasn’t quite the word Stiles would have used for the way the soft gray fabric stretched across the expanse of Derek’s chest.  Stiles allowed himself a brief moment to envy that shirt (though couldn’t even think about the jeans, the way they hugged Derek’s ass just like Stiles wanted t—no, none of that) before hiding his sudden arousal behind a smug smile and proclaiming in a slightly shaky voice, “Am I awesome at picking out clothes or what?”

The look on Derek’s face made it clear he’d rather swallow wolfsbane than agree with that, but he seemed much more at ease.  And due to Stiles’ refusal to stop grinning like an idiot, Derek’s own expression eventually softened.  It wasn’t a “thank you,” but really, the way that shirt showcased Derek’s perfect shoulders was thanks enough.

“So, I got us pork chops for dinner,” Stiles said, fighting the urge to step over and smooth a wrinkle out of the shirt that just happened to be right over Derek’s stomach and possibly find out whether it was as rock-hard as it had looked the previous evening.  “What if I just made yours… extra rare?  Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” Derek said, obviously enjoying seeing Stiles flustered.  Well, fuck the Xbox, Derek was certainly going to get plenty of entertainment over the next few days.

“Okay, great, excellent,” Stiles said, attempting to swing his arms casually and ending up smacking the back of his hand into the cabinet.  But he was actually rather proud of himself for keeping his voice from cracking like a teenager’s when he asked, “And the rest of the clothes?  Did you try them on?”

“They fit,” Derek said simply.

Excellent, Stiles would be treated to more of this.  Surely he’d get used to it after a while and stop blatantly ogling Derek’s biceps when he crossed his arms… just like that.

“Right!” Stiles exclaimed, forcing himself to look away long enough to pick up the can of tomato sauce.  And once all off his focus was no longer on Derek’s body, Stiles realized that both his hand and his foot really fucking hurt.  No wonder people thought wers were dangerous; they were just completely wrong about the reason.

“So I’ll just get started on the pork chops,” Stiles remarked as he stood… and realized he was talking to himself.  Derek had slipped out of the kitchen unnoticed.  “You’ll have to teach me how to do that,” Stiles said loudly.  “’Stealth’ is not high on the list of my many detective-y skills.”

There was no response, and Stiles shook his head to clear it before turning his attention to the food.  He peeled some potatoes and put them on the stove to boil, then got out the pork chops.  He seasoned his own, but left the other two plain and put them all in the oven, setting a timer so he’d remember to remove Derek’s food early.

Stiles planned to heat up some green beans as well, but he figured he ought to talk to Derek about his conversation with Deaton first.  There weren’t a lot of specifics that Stiles could give, but he could at least let Derek know that he’d set things in motion.

Stiles found Derek in the living room, near the fireplace.  Derek had taken one of the pictures off the mantle and was studying it.  He took Stiles a little off guard by speaking first. “Your parents?”

Derek had asked neutrally, but as always, Stiles felt a hole open up in his gut at the subject.  “Yeah.  They were wer rights activists, actually.  That’s how they met, back in college.  She got arrested for trying to break into the Washington State Services compound, and he was so in love with her, he bailed her out.”  Stiles took the picture frame from Derek, careful not to smudge the glass.  “I wish I were half as brave as she was.”

When Stiles glanced up, Derek was gazing at him through narrowed eyes.  But then he asked, “Was?”

“Yeah.  She died of cancer when I was 13, and my dad, he never really—” Stiles shook his head; the pain was blunter now than it used to be, but it would always be there.  “Cirrhosis.  Three years ago.”

Derek nodded and carefully took the picture back, his fingers brushing against Stiles’ as he did.  He respectfully set the frame down where it had been before and continued to study it.

“Do you—?” Stiles began without thinking, but stopped.  Wers were usually separated from their parents and sold at birth or shortly after their first shift, and it was unlikely Derek knew anything about his family or how to find them.

But Derek heard what Stiles didn’t ask.  “They’re dead.”

“Maybe not.  How do you—?”

“All of them.  One by one.”

Oh _Jesus_ , Stiles was terrified to know what that meant, but Derek, unsurprisingly, didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and for once Stiles was grateful.  “I—I’m sorry.  I know exactly how comforting that’s _not_ , but… I’m sorry.”

Derek stared into the middle distance, tugging at the silver collar around his throat.  “I wasn’t always an alpha.  It wasn’t my choice.”

Stiles was unsure of exactly how that worked – if it fell upon the senior member of the family or the pack, or if it went to the strongest beta, or if packs even had to be blood-related.  He did know, however, that now was not the time to ask.

“There’s so little I know about wers,” Stiles admitted after a long silence.  “So much I could have asked my parents, but I didn’t even think.  I’m pretending like I know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I’ve never really known a wer, let alone spoken to one.  I realized that today.  The wers—”

“Werewolves,” Derek interjected softly.

“Excuse me?” Stiles asked, genuinely surprised.  Derek usually wasn’t in the business of interruptions.

“That’s what we are: werewolves.  Humans try to erase the fact that we’re half wolf, even while they treat us like animals.”

“Werewolves,” Stiles repeated, the word feeling foreign in his mouth.  Surely that’s the word Stiles’ parents must have used, but after his mother died, his father had rarely spoken about the cause they’d shared.  It had been too painful.  So _werewolf_ sounded… uncomfortable, almost taboo.  But Derek was right – trying to deny the wolf was insulting at best, outright hostile at worst.

“I always thought that was kind of odd,” Stiles said, thinking out loud.  “Because the ‘wer’ part is the prefix that means ‘human.’  But, yeah, just let me know if I do or say something stupid or offensive.  I’m used to it.  And I want…” Stiles didn’t even _know_ what he wanted; he just knew that his eyes had been opened to something that was very, very wrong, and for the first time in his life he understood the need his parents had felt to try to make some of it right again.

Derek looked thoughtful, like he was about to say something, but then the kitchen timer went off and his expression closed off again.  He nodded over Stiles’ shoulder toward the kitchen.

“Oh, right,” Stiles said, trying not to sound disappointed.  “Can’t overcook yours.  And I’m making mashed potatoes and green beans to go with the pork.  You can eat them or not.  I promise I won’t be offended.”

Derek just nodded, and Stiles resigned himself to the fact that the conversation was over for the time being.  It wasn’t until he was removing two of the chops from the oven that he realized he hadn’t even mentioned Deaton.  But the potatoes were just about soft enough to be mashed, and Stiles still had to heat up the beans.  They came from a can, which wasn’t ideal, but the pork chops and potatoes were already pushing the limits of Stiles’ cooking ability.  Normally, he didn’t bother with much more than microwave dinners or crock pot concoctions.

So he timed everything terribly, overcooking his own pork chop while he was dealing with the potatoes, and the beans were nearly back to room temperature by the time everything else was ready and on the table.  As was quickly becoming the norm, one second Stiles had his back turned to get the serving spoons, and the next, Derek was calmly seated at the dining room table.  Stiles just barely managed to keep from flinging the spoons across the room in shock.  “I hate to be rude,” he said sharply, “but would it kill you to make a little noise when you come and go?  All this appearing and disappearing is bad for my heart.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow.  “Last time I gave you warning, you still dropped a can on your foot.”

Touché.

Changing the subject while he dished out the food, Stiles told Derek about his talk with Deaton, glossing over the parts about Derek possibly maiming Stiles.  “So he says he’ll get back to me,” Stiles finished, sitting down to a satisfyingly full plate of food.  “I know that’s not terribly comforting, but my parents were friends with Deaton for a long time.  I thought he’d given up the cause, sort of like my dad did, but when I talked to him a few months ago about the stray wers – sorry, werewolves – that get brought into the station, he told me there was a way to get them out.”

Stiles had been cutting into his pork chop – though it took a little bit of effort – as he talked, and stuffed a piece in his mouth.  A little chewy, but that was his own fault, and it wasn’t that bad.  He hoped he hadn’t cooked Derek’s meat too much, but when Stiles looked up, he had to chomp down on his lower lip to keep from bursting into laughter.

He’d just automatically given Derek silverware when he’d set the table, and now Derek was awkwardly holding his knife and fork, glaring at them as if he could will them to cut the meat with the sheer force of his anger.  It was like watching a frustrated four year old trying to use a knife for the first time, and though Stiles’ eyes were watering with the suppressed need to laugh, he was pretty sure Derek wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.  And Stiles _had_ promised Deaton he’d try not to get mauled.

Stiles had to look away and cough into his hand until he was composed enough to look back at Derek, who had obviously not been fooled and was now glaring at Stiles, eyes beginning to glow red.  “Sorry!  Sorry!” Stiles gasped.  “Totally my fault.  You don’t have to use those.  We’re all guys here – just pick it up and go for it.”

Fortunately, the glare gave way to mild irritation, and Derek picked up one of the pork chops with his hands and began to eat.  Stiles nearly collapsed with relief, and also noted that Derek was eating much slower and more carefully than yesterday.  He had to use a fork for the veggies, but that was much easier to operate than the coordination of both the fork and the knife.  It sent an unexpected pang through Stiles’ chest, and he thought of all the stupid little civilities he must take for granted.

Derek ate both pork chops and most of the green beans, but left the potatoes nearly untouched.  Maybe there was too much milk and butter – his stomach probably wasn’t used to handling dairy.  But Stiles didn’t say a word as he cleared the table, packing away the leftovers.

He fully expected Derek to have vanished again by the time he finished.  But no, Derek was still sitting at the kitchen table, watching him, which was actually far more disconcerting than the vanishing.  Stiles had just begun loading the plates in the dishwasher when he remembered the peaches.  Keeping his back to Derek, he quickly washed one in the sink, then looked over his shoulder and yelped “Think fast!” while tossing the peach at him.  Stiles’ aim was off, but Derek caught it anyway, and Stiles got the pleasure of watching Derek’s eyes go wide when he realized what it was.

Stiles meant to continue cleaning up, but he found himself unable to look away from Derek, who was holding the peach delicately, almost reverently, turning it over and over in his hands.  “Go on,” Stiles said softly.  “It’s not going to bite.”

Derek scowled – whether at Stiles’ lame joke or the fact that he’d sort of phrased it like Derek needed his permission, Stiles wasn’t sure – but the scowl disappeared the second he actually sank his teeth into the peach.

And the _sound_ he made, Jesus.  It was a sound of long-denied sensual pleasure, rumbling deep in Derek’s chest, and it hit Stiles across the room like a punch to the solar plexus.  Stiles had never heard anything so shameless in his life, and his knees threatened to buckle.  And the way Derek continued to eat it – slowly, deliberately, his eyelashes even fluttering a little with helpless delight – didn’t exactly do wonders for Stiles’ composure.  He had to lean forward onto the kitchen island to remain upright – and to hide the extremely inconvenient erection starting to tent his jeans.

But Stiles was riveted to the spot; he stood there and watched Derek eat the whole thing, sucking the last of the sweet flesh off the pit and – oh, fuck – licking up the juice that had spilled down his hand and wrist.  And it was a damned good thing that Derek was focused on the peach to the exclusion of everything else, because Stiles realized he’d been vicariously licking his own lips for at least the last minute, and they were starting to chap.

Stiles quickly wiped the back of his hand over his mouth just before Derek seemed to remember that the rest of the world existed.  He looked over at Stiles, his gaze unfocused, his lips still shiny with juice.

A shaky smile crossed Stiles’ face, and he was very proud of the fact that his voice didn’t squeak in the slightest when he asked, “Another one?”

The dreams started that night.

&&&

The next morning, Stiles had to go back to work, but he was surprisingly comfortable leaving Derek alone in his house again.  Derek had his stack of books and plenty of food (there were two peaches left, and Stiles selfishly hoped Derek wouldn’t finish them off while he was gone), and Stiles had a full day of interviews ahead of him.

The Beacon Hills PD wasn’t big enough to be split into departments, so Stiles and Scott had to handle investigation work for pretty much any crimes that came through the station.  Today they were gathering evidence against a contractor who’d been swindling his clients – using cheap materials, sometimes not even doing the work.  _NYPD Blue_ it was not, but an old lady had broken her leg when a staircase collapsed, so the case had gone beyond simple fraud.

Taking witness statements required Stiles to actually wear a suit to work.  Stiles hated the damn things – he could normally just wear plain clothes as long as he didn’t dress like a hobo – but Chief Martin insisted on the suits because “they’re the only thing that doesn’t make you look like a twelve year old.”  Stiles chose to take that as a compliment.  It was pretty much the best he was going to get from the Chief.

Derek was already perched on his spot on the couch, book in hand, when Stiles was ready to leave.  Derek looked up at him, and for once, Stiles couldn’t think of anything to say.  “So, um, yeah, I’ll be going to work now,” he mumbled.  Well, anything _intelligent_ to say.  “Uh, bye?”

As expected, Derek said nothing, didn’t even nod.  Instead, he just looked Stiles steadily up and down, then went back to his book.  It wasn’t until Stiles got into his Jeep that he noticed the light sweat on the back of his neck, the slight tremor in his hand as he went to grip the gearshift.  Had Derek been checking him out?

Fortunately – or not – he had a long day _not_ to think about Derek.  Sobbing old ladies tended to send Stiles into full awkward mode – he never knew where to look, what to do with his hands.  Interrogations he could handle; weeping he could not.  Luckily, Scott was better at the whole “people-person” aspect of the job, so Stiles just had to remember to keep the questions short and his face neutral.  When they got in sync, they worked tremendously well together.

By the time they finished, both Stiles and Scott were exhausted – Scott much more so because he probably hadn’t slept more than a few hours over the past few nights.  He didn’t even have to say anything, just turned his best puppy dog eyes on Stiles and Stiles groaned.  “Again, dude?  You are not allowed to use that stupidly adorable kid to get out of paperwork for the next 18 years.”

“Just until she starts sleeping through the night.  Please?  Do you want me to beg?  Because I can beg.  I will _grovel_ —”

Stiles cut him off with a slap on the back that made Scott sway on his feet; Stiles was never going to say no anyway.  “Go home, Scott, get some sleep.  And give Allison my deepest sympathies.  Just, for the love of god, please don’t report back to me on the baby’s every single bowel movement.  Consider me impressed across the board at your daughter’s healthy digestive system.”

He could swear he saw Scott start to tear up.  “I love you, man.  I really, really do.”

“I know.  That’s how the rumors got started.  Now get the hell out of here before you pass out on me.”

Scott nodded dazedly and walked out on slightly unsteady legs.  Stiles briefly wondered whether he ought to see if Boyd or Reyes could drive him home, but they were out on patrol and if Scott hadn’t managed to wreck his piece-of-shit car yet, he probably wasn’t going to do it tonight.

It was past nine by the time Stiles got everything squared away.  It didn’t help that he was a little obsessive-compulsive when it came to the details in his reports, but that kept the Chief happy, and when Lydia Martin was happy… well, nobody got ripped a new asshole, and that counted as a good day in Stiles’ book.

Stiles had very nearly managed to forget that he was harboring a fugitive wer – _werewolf_ – until he got home and saw the plates in the sink that hadn’t been there when he’d left that morning.  It looked like Derek had eaten the steak raw and polished off an entire bunch of carrots, but at least he’d attempted to clean up after himself.

When Stiles flicked on the light in the living room, he was surprised to see Derek not on the couch, but standing by the window, looking out of the open blinds.  Stiles quickly turned the lights back off – less of a chance of anyone seeing Derek through the window, even though it faced the backyard.

Derek hadn’t so much as glanced in Stiles’ direction, though he had flinched a bit when Stiles had flipped the lights on.  “You all right?” Stiles asked quietly, slowly making his way through the dark room and silently congratulating himself for not cracking a shin on the coffee table.  “The full moon’s not for at least another two weeks.”

Stiles was kind of hoping that would get Derek to give him some idea of what to expect during the full moon – if Derek was still around by then.  But he remained silent and still.  Well, he was usually still, but now he was almost preternaturally so.  When Stiles got close to him, he got that same feeling radiating off Derek that he had in the holding cell: one of carefully suppressed power.  Derek was holding himself so motionless he was practically making the air tremble, and it was downright unnerving.

Stiles stood next to him, close enough that he could feel the unnatural heat of Derek’s body, and stared out the window, trying to look for whatever Derek was seeing.  It took Stiles a few minutes to piece it together.  “Oh, you want to be out there, don’t you?  You’ve been trapped in this house for two days.  It’s got to be driving you nuts.”

“I’ll live,” Derek replied drily, but his irises glistened with red for a split second and Stiles felt like he’d just gotten the tiniest glimpse of what Derek really was – civilized, yes, but also a wild creature meant to be able to run freely through the woods and let loose with a primal howl when the urge took him.  Still the same person with a fondness for leather jackets and Ray Bradbury, but also something… more.

“I wish I could let— I mean, I wish you could go out, at least for a little while.  But Deaton said it was dangerous if there were other wer…wolves who could track your scent.”

“There are,” Derek said, his tone painfully neutral, and Stiles was caught between sympathy and the desire to shake Derek by the shoulders until he spoke more than two words at a time.  But Stiles had just enough foresight to know that wouldn’t end well.

So they lapsed back into silence for another few minutes, and for once, it wasn’t a silence Stiles felt like he had to fill.  But eventually a question did pop into his mind, something he’d been wanting to ask since doing what little research he could.  “Do you— I mean, are there others out there in the woods, other werewolves who’ll be wondering where you’ve gone?  Your pack?”

Derek snorted bitterly.  “I tried, in the beginning.  We’re stronger together.  Alphas especially, but all of us, really.  But they kept getting taken, found by the police or their owners or… worse.  And then it wasn’t worth it anymore.”

God, that must have been horrible.  Derek losing his entire family, then trying to build some type of surrogate family, only to have them continually ripped away again.  One by one, Derek had said.  One by one until there was no one left.

For once, Stiles didn’t have the words, and even if he did, they’d be less than worthless.  Without thinking, he lifted a hand to Derek’s shoulder, squeezing gently.  Stiles was about to jerk his hand back, mortified by what he’d done – he didn’t want Derek to think he was pitying him or, worse, _petting_ him or something – but to Stiles’ astonishment, Derek leaned back into the touch until he was nearly pressed against Stiles’ side.

Stiles’ heart shot into his throat as his mind raced.  The werewolf information he’d gathered hadn’t said anything about this.  In fact, it had warned against touching a werewolf.  But wasn’t that something that wolves – just plain wolves – did to bond with their pack?  And Derek had been without a pack for so long, not to mention the utter lack of human contact.  It had been a long time since Bio 101, but Stiles was pretty sure all mammals needed at least occasional physical closeness to thrive, and god knew how long it had been since Derek had felt the touch of someone else just for comfort’s sake.

So, taking a deep breath, Stiles moved forward, barely half a step, until the entire side of his body from shoulder to thigh was pressed lightly against Derek’s.  Stiles’ heart was threatening to hammer its way out of his chest, but he could’ve sworn he heard just the barest hint of a sigh escape Derek’s mouth, so Stiles stood firm, soaking in the heat of Derek’s body.  They stood like that for a long time, the tension in Derek’s shoulder gradually softening beneath Stiles’ hand, both gazing silently at the half moon until it finally slipped behind the clouds and the night went dark.

&&&

Something changed after that.

Part of it was obvious – Stiles started touching Derek.  Stiles had always been a tactile sort of guy, so it wasn’t a huge stretch to squeeze Derek’s arm as Stiles passed him in the hallway.  Or let their hands touch as he handed Derek a mug.  (The knife and fork thing was still a work in progress, but Derek sure as hell remembered coffee.  Stiles couldn’t tell if it genuinely made Derek less grumpy or, now that he was drinking it again, his pre-coffee morning scowls had just gotten extra-scowly.)

And Derek reciprocated in his own way.  He didn’t suddenly start giving Stiles bear hugs (which, frankly, Stiles wouldn’t have m—no, best not go there), but when Stiles insisted they watch the original, un-fucked-around-with Star Wars trilogy, Derek sat close enough to him on the couch that he could feel the unnatural heat radiating of Derek’s body.  They weren’t touching, not quite, but they were definitely closer than the approved minimal distance dictated by Guy Law.

Stiles tried not to think about how he hadn’t been this close to another person since Danny (well, except Scott, but occasionally clobbering his partner to establish dominance was an exemption under the Bro Clause of Guy Law) and Danny had been… god, two years ago.  Allison and Isaac had both independently been badgering Stiles to “get back out there,” whatever the hell that meant.  But Stiles’ dedication to his job meant most of the people he met were actual criminals, and he was pretty sure if he ever actually took Reyes up on one of her offers, he’d wake up chained to a basement wall in a latex suit with no solid idea of how he’d gotten there, and that wasn’t a line he was ready to cross just yet.

Which wasn’t necessarily a hard _no_ ; Stiles just liked to think he was still several poor life choices removed from that particular scenario.

But with Derek, it wasn’t just the touching.  Stiles felt something in his shoulders, something that was perpetually wound tight ( _ever since Dad died_ said a small voice in the back of his head, one that he chose to ignore) gradually began to loosen.  A week passed without word from Deaton, and Stiles should have been worried, but he wasn’t.  Even Scott – sweet, oblivious Scott – noticed a difference, and Stiles had previously been certain that Scott wouldn’t have noticed if Stiles spontaneously grew a second head.  And that was _before_ the baby.

“That was awesome, man,” Scott said one afternoon after Stiles had smoothly coaxed an important bit of information from a reluctant witness.  “You’re totally Zen this week.  What gives?”

Stiles still hadn’t mentioned a word about Derek to Scott, much as he wanted to.  “Yoga,” Stiles lied easily.  “You’d be amazed what downward-facing dog does for your chi.” He was pretty sure he was mixing cultural references there, but Scott was highly unlikely to call him on it.

And it wasn’t like Stiles and Derek were suddenly buddies or anything.  Derek was slowly starting to string more than half a dozen words together at a time, and Stiles was doing his damnedest not to push, but they’d had an actual almost-conversation the other night.  Derek had been tugging absently at his collar, and Stiles just couldn’t keep the question from popping out of his mouth.

“Does it—does it hurt?  The collar?”

“I’m used to it,” Derek said cryptically.  Well, practically everything he said was cryptic, but Stiles took it as an in.

“But when you first got it?”

“I was twelve.  Before my first shift.  Got a new one every year until I was eighteen.”

“It’s not an alpha collar.”

“No,” Derek said simply.

Stiles decided not to push that particular line of questioning and went for another.  “But how did they put it on?  There’s no clasp.”

Derek gave him a piercing look.  “How do you think?”  And he turned the collar until Stiles could see the thin welding line across the metal.

Jesus, what kind of monster took a welding torch to the neck of a twelve year old, even knowing he’d heal?  Stiles shivered, and the conversation, such as it was, was over.  He quashed the sudden urge to put his arms around Derek.

Derek still spent at least a few minutes every night staring mournfully out the window, and it made Stiles’ heart twist in his chest even as he racked his brain to think of something he could do, something that would make this feel less like imprisonment, however temporary.

It took another week of coming home after work, hanging up his jacket, dropping his keys on the front table, and immediately starting to gripe about his day, knowing that Derek could hear him from pretty much any room in the house, before the truth of it hit Stiles.

He had someone to come home to.

Never mind that that someone was a fugitive werewolf who would be leaving any day now to travel thousands of miles north and never return.  Stiles had to keep from knocking his head against the wall.  He really had no emotional self-preservation instincts at all.

Derek came into the front hallway, making his footsteps loud enough to hear because… right, Stiles had come to this revelation mid-sentence.  At least he hadn’t said it out loud.

A warm hand rested on the back of Stiles’ neck, and as good as it felt, it made Stiles’ chest ache.  Derek sensed it somehow and sought to comfort Stiles the way he knew best, which seemed to involve Derek nuzzling against Stiles’ throat.

Stiles had to choke back a pained laugh.  Derek couldn’t possibly know how his closeness was affecting Stiles.  Or at least Stiles hoped he couldn’t, because the only thing worse than being attracted to a skittish, potentially dangerous werewolf was broadcasting that attraction to said werewolf.  Stiles had no idea how Derek would react to that, but he couldn’t imagine it would end well.

“I’m okay,” Stiles said, trying to keep his voice light, though Derek’s breath huffing across his throat was making Stiles’ blood rush to inappropriate places.  He patted Derek gently on the shoulder, caught helplessly between the desire to push him away and the need to pull him closer.  “I’m fine, buddy.  Just… a rough day.”

Derek nosed his way up to the extremely sensitive spot just below Stiles’ ear and Stiles was rapidly approaching his breaking point when Derek suddenly pulled away, his face even less readable than usual.  Stiles smiled weakly.  “If I don’t hear from Deaton soon, I’ll call him again.  He said not to, but I know you hate being locked up in here.”

Derek shrugged.  “Could be worse.”  Then he turned and walked back out of the hall.

If Stiles had had enough hair to grab, he would have been tearing it out in clumps.

&&&

Unbelievably, Stiles had a magnificent stroke of luck in the unexpected form of dumpster kittens.  The fat cat that hung around the back of the station turned out to be a pregnant cat, one that didn’t survive for very long after giving birth.  Isaac, who must have had some kind of radar for neediness, was the first to spot them.  It was a slow day, so eventually everybody save Scott, who had already gone home, was out back, cooing over the poor little orphaned kittens.  Even Chief Martin – well, not so much with the cooing, but she looked distinctly less murderous in the presence of half a dozen helpless balls of fur.

Boyd, though.  Boyd was cooing and tickling a kitten that was small enough to fit in his palm.  If Stiles’ own hands hadn’t been full of kitten, he would’ve tried to get video of it on his phone.  As long as Stiles didn’t put it online, Boyd _probably_ wouldn’t beat him up for it.  Not too badly anyway.

When Reyes asked, “Do you think I could take one of these little guys home?” Stiles saw his chance.

“We probably ought to take them to the vet first, make sure they’re healthy,” Stiles piped up.  “I can drop them off on my way home.”

Chief Martin chose that moment to shift her frankly terrifying focus on Stiles.  “Didn’t know you were one for taking in strays, Stilinksi.”

Stiles fervently prayed to whoever or whatever would listen that his nervous gulp wasn’t audible.  There was no way Lydia knew about Derek.  How could she?  Then Stiles realized that, while he’d filed a report on the return of the stray Isaac brought in – giving a fake owner’s name and everything – he hadn’t actually put down an address for the owner.  Which wouldn’t be an unusual omission, if it were anyone but Stiles.  Still, the odds that the Chief had combed through the stray wer reports and noticed the discrepancy were slim, and even slimmer that she’d make sly hints about it rather than just give Stiles a straight-up tongue-lashing.  And not the fun, spanky kind, either.

All of this flashed through Stiles’ mind in an instant – perks of a hyperactive brain – and Stiles managed to come out with, “I didn’t say I was adopting them, just taking them to the vet.  Besides, I think Reyes would pistol whip me if I bogarted the kittens.”

“Damn straight,” he heard Erica mutter through the nauseatingly adorable mewling.

Whether because of perceptiveness or just excellent timing, Isaac – god bless him – took that moment to shove one of the kittens into Chief Martin’s hands and, really, there was no universe in which Stiles could compete for her attention when the scrawny little thing yawned and stretched its tiny paws.

After work, Stiles – with the help of Boyd, who might actually have a shot at a second career as a cat whisperer – rounded up all the kittens into a cardboard box and put the box in the Jeep.  “I’m sure Dr. Deaton will just need a day or two to check them over.  I’ll let you know what he says.”  Isaac had already made a sign-up sheet for adoption and was arguing with Erica over a two-kitten limit.

The vet’s office was closed by the time Stiles got there, but he knew Deaton would still be around.  Stiles carefully balanced the rocking, mewling box against his hip while knocking on the back door.  “Dr. Deaton?” he called out.  “Special delivery.”

After a few moments, the door cracked open just enough for Stiles to see Deaton’s wary face.  “Stiles…”

“Kittens!” Stiles said, a goofy grin on his face as he held the box out.  “Tiny, homeless, orphaned kittens that Isaac found behind the station.  Helpless, adorable—”

“Just get in here, Stiles,” Deaton sighed, opening the door the rest of the way.  He led them back to the kennel, where there was an empty incubator on a cluttered table.  Deaton turned it on to a low setting and began moving the kittens one at a time into the warmth.

To Stiles’ credit, he managed to keep his mouth shut until Deaton looked at him expectantly.  “I really am here because of the kittens,” Stiles insisted.  “But I was also wondering if there had been any word.”

“I’ve made some calls, but as you can imagine, there aren’t a lot of people willing to transport a fugitive alpha, particularly with the rumors floating around.”

That stopped Stiles in his tracks.  “What rumors?”

Deaton narrowed his eyes.  “What do you know about him, your werewolf?”

“Not… not a lot,” Stiles stammered, suddenly suppressing a blush at the phrase _your werewolf_.  He trusted Deaton, but the little that Derek had shared with him seemed… private.  “He still doesn’t talk much, but it’s obvious he spent most of his life with humans – apart from recently, I mean.  He seems sure that his family’s dead.”  _One by one_ , Stiles thought, but he didn’t say it.  “But there were other werewolves in the house, other packs, I’m guessing.  At least one knows his scent well enough to track him.  I’ve looked in the police databases – there aren’t any alphas reported missing.”

Deaton’s expression was grave.  “Well, there wouldn’t be.  Anyone who owns an alpha wouldn’t go to the police if they were foolish enough to let him or her escape.  They’d call Services directly, or… take care of it themselves.”

That wasn’t hard to decipher.  “And this rumor?”

“It could be nothing.  There are always rumors, but the timing of this one… It’s only surfacing now because word’s going around in our circles that someone’s found a stray alpha.  Supposedly, a very dangerous alpha escaped from the Argent family three years ago.”

“Dangerous?”  Stiles felt the blood drain from his face.  “How dangerous?”

“Allegedly, this one killed a family member to take over as alpha.”

“Was—was there a name?” Stiles asked, his chest constricting.

“No,” Deaton sighed.  “There doesn’t even seem to be a consensus over whether the alpha is male or female.”

“Well, Derek wouldn’t—” Stiles choked on the words, immediately wishing he hadn’t given away Derek’s name.  “He said all his family was killed.  And that he never even wanted to be an alpha.  It can’t be him.”

“Maybe not,” Deaton said, and Stiles realized he’d entirely stopped breathing until he heard the doctor’s words.  “But the Argents themselves are dangerous.  That’s _not_ a rumor.  Be careful.”

Stiles’ head was reeling.  “But… Allison.  She’s married to my partner.  I’ve known her for years.”

“So have I.  And I don’t think she’s involved.  But some of her family… they’re as ruthless as they are powerful.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Stiles breathed.  “What do I do?”

Deaton looked grim.  “Just keep doing what you’re doing.  Even if this Derek did belong to the Argents, if he’s untagged, there’s no legal proof.”

“So there’s also no connection to the Argents if he ends up dead,” Stiles realized.

“They know what they’re doing.  They’ve been doing it for generations.”

Part of Stiles wanted to ask exactly what it was the Argents were doing, but he suspected he already knew, and he didn’t especially want to hear Deaton say it.  “Please,” he said, dangerously close to begging.  “Find somebody to take him.  Hell, I’ll take him myself if I have to, but I don’t think the Jeep could even make it up to Canada.”

When Deaton closed a hand over his wrist, Stiles realized he was shaking.  “Don’t do _anything_ right now,” Deaton said firmly.  “You’re not stupid, Stiles.  Just keep him safe and hidden.  I’ll contact you the minute I find transport.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said weakly.  He couldn’t quite manage a smile, but he nodded.

He had just turned to leave when he heard Deaton call his name.  Stiles looked back, and Deaton had a painfully nostalgic look in his eyes.  “They’d be proud of you, Stiles.”

The thought of his parents was the only thing keeping him together as he drove home.  In all those years, he’d never taken the time to ask them _why_ they fought so hard for werewolf rights.  But those untagged bodies that were found in the woods from time to time… They usually weren’t collared, so it was assumed that they were the offspring of the fugitives nobody wanted to admit lived in the woods.  But if they were untagged, it would be simple enough to cut off the collar and leave the body untraceable to any owner.  Stiles had never had to process any of them, thank god, but he was pretty sure that if there was no tag, the coroner didn’t even bother to record cause of death. 

It was technically a crime to abuse or assault a werewolf, but they healed so quickly that there was rarely any physical evidence.  And killing a werewolf carried harsher penalties than killing an animal, but Stiles had never known the few humans who were actually prosecuted to be tried for anything more than manslaughter.  Stiles had only worked one or two of those cases himself, but from others he’d seen, the owner was almost always able to successfully plead self-defense. 

If the Argents were doing what Stiles suspected, if they really were keeping untagged werewolves and dumping their bodies in the woods… it would be damned near impossible to convict them without catching them in the act.

When Stiles got home, Derek met him in the hallway, but didn’t reach for him this time.  It was like Derek could sense Stiles’ distress before he even walked in the door.

“Derek,” Stiles said, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice – more for his own sake than Derek’s.  “We need to talk.”

Seeing the change on Derek’s face was like watching a door slam shut.  Stiles hadn’t seen Derek’s expression that closed off since he’d been sitting in the jail cell.  “I’m sorry.  I know you don’t want to talk about… well, a lot of things.  That’s why I’ve tried not to ask too much.  But if we’re going to get you to safety, there’s some things I need to know.”

Derek’s face remained carefully blank, but he nodded and followed Stiles into the living room.  Stiles sat down on the couch, expecting Derek to take his usual place right next to him – but Derek sat in a chair halfway across the room.  Stiles didn’t realize how accustomed he’d become to Derek’s warmth at his side.

“Okay,” Stiles began weakly, his knee starting to jiggle.  “Okay.  I know you were living with humans before you escaped into the woods, but obviously I don’t know where.  And I wouldn’t care, except… it matters now.”

For once, Derek wasn’t being silent because he didn’t have anything to say.  This was Derek being silent because there was something he didn’t _want_ to say.  It looked like Stiles was going to have to say it for him.  “They haven’t reported it to the police, and they’re almost certainly not going to, but supposedly the Argent family lost an alpha about three years ago.  Is it you?”

Stiles was expecting Derek to stall or lie or just flat-out refuse to answer, so he was shocked when Derek simply said, “Yes.”

Deep down, though, Stiles wasn’t surprised at the answer itself.

That didn’t stop him from burying his face in his hands, though.  Jesus, where to even _begin_?  He couldn’t be angry at Derek for not telling him, because Stiles had never asked.  He could only be angry at himself – he was a goddamned detective, and he had never really tried to find out why there was a collared but untagged werewolf running loose at all.  He should have known something was seriously fucked up from the beginning.

Stiles ground the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until he saw fireworks, trying to decide which question – that he didn’t want the answer to – he should ask first.  “Is it—is it true?  About the Argents?”

Derek was maddeningly calm.  Or at least he looked it; there was really no telling what was going on behind the blank mask of his face.  “Which part of it?”

“That they’re…” Stiles choked on the word.  “Hunters.”

“Some of them.”

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.  Even the people who treated their werewolves as little more than slaves or animals were mostly disgusted by hunting them for sport, though Stiles had heard there was an underground subculture that still practiced it.  It was like something out of the Dark Ages, which was why Stiles hadn’t wanted to believe it went on in a place like Beacon Hills.

“My partner, Scott,” Stiles blurted, “he’s married to—”

“ _Who_?” Derek demanded, his voice deeper and more terrifying than Stiles had ever heard it.  Derek’s eyes were glowing blood red, and he was half out of his chair, about to advance on Stiles—

“Allison!  He’s married to Allison, Chris’ daughter.  Please, god, please don’t tell me she’s—”

“She’s not,” Derek said, his voice mostly normal again.  His eyes, too, had returned to their normal indefinable hazel-green, though he looked distinctly tired, almost pained as he sank back down into the chair.  “Neither is Chris.”

“Oh thank god,” Stiles groaned.  “But they— Do they know?”

“Chris does.  He chose not to… follow in the family tradition.  And as far as I know, he kept Allison away from it.  I haven’t seen her since we were both children.”

Stiles’ adrenaline was starting to ebb, leaving an unpleasant tingling in the palms of his hands.  “Then… who?”

“In Beacon Hills?  Chris’ father, Gerard.  If I legally had an… owner” – Derek spat the word out like it was poisoned – “it would be him.  And his youngest daughter, Kate.”

The mention of Kate made Derek’s eyes flicker red again briefly.  Stiles knew her as Allison’s aunt, of course, but Kate Argent was also well-known to the entire Beacon Hills PD as being constitutionally unable to obey traffic laws.  Strangely enough, though, she rarely actually got tickets.  Stiles vaguely remembered letting her off a few times back when he’d been a beat cop.  He’d always been left dumbfounded, feeling utterly stupid and manipulated a few minutes later.  He’d never suspected her of violence, but if anyone could hide it behind a smile and a flash of cleavage…

“Scott doesn’t know you’re here,” Stiles reassured Derek quickly.  “Even Isaac – the officer who brought you in – doesn’t know what happened once we left the station.  I just told him I took care of everything.  Deaton’s the only one who knows I’m harboring an untagged alpha, but he doesn’t know you’re connected to the Argents.  Not yet.  He might put the pieces together, but I trust him.”

Derek didn’t look particularly comforted, and Stiles probably should have tried to come up with something to comfort him.  But Derek was actually _talking_ to him, and he figured it was time to face the reality of what they were up against, no matter how uncomfortable it made either of them.  “You said, about your family…” Stiles began, his voice cracking.  “You said ‘one by one.’  What did you mean?”

Derek stared at the floor, staying silent for so long that Stiles was about to go out of his skin.  He couldn’t (and wouldn’t) force Derek to talk.  Eventually, though, Derek did.  “My family has belonged to the Argents for generations.  And we’re not the only ones.  They own several packs, and they bring in new omegas sometimes, to keep the bloodlines going.”

Stiles had known some wealthy families owned entire packs, but he’d never really thought about how that would work over a span of decades.  If you kept bringing in new blood to keep the family alive, eventually you’d either have to start selling some off, or…

“And when the packs get too big,” Derek said, finishing Stiles’ thought.  “They… cull the herd.”

Stiles had been half-expecting it, but he still couldn’t help exclaiming, “Jesus, that’s… that’s illegal!”  It was a stupidly obvious thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else.  And he didn’t even have to ask how the Argents got away with it – Stiles was the very authority that should be aware of this shit, and he’d been unknowingly looking the other way for years because he couldn’t stomach the thought long enough to take it seriously.  They were just rumors, so he’d just ignored them and left the strays for State Services… “Services?” Stiles croaked.  “Do they know about this?”

Derek’s laugh was cracked and humorless.  “From what I could tell, they practically condone it.  Does their job for them.  Without the hassle of paperwork.”

All those untagged bodies in the woods.  How many of Derek’s family members had come through the station in bags?  “And the fact that you’re not tagged… That’s not by accident.”

Derek shook his head.  “No official owners, no suspects.”

Stiles’ vision began to go gray around the edges and he realized his heart rate had sped up dangerously.  He hadn’t had an attack in years, but—

“ _Stiles_.”  Someone was saying his name, gripping his clammy hands.  “Stiles, come back.”

It wasn’t a voice Stiles could ignore.  He nodded and tried to get his breathing under control.  He hadn’t had to use the techniques for a long time, but his body still knew them, and they still worked.  He was left shivering with cold sweat, but he could breathe again.

“Sorry,” Stiles gasped.  “I’m sorry.”  _For everything_ , he wanted to say.  _For everything you went through.  For everything I didn’t see.  For every time I looked the other way._

“It… it wasn’t always like that,” Derek said, now sitting next to Stiles and still gripping his hands, and what the fuck, Derek was trying to comfort _Stiles_.  “I think it used to be only a few at a time, never entire families, not until Gerard.  And until I was about 16, we were treated well enough.  Like servants, but no worse.”

“What changed?” Stiles asked, forcing out a choked whisper.

Derek pulled his hands away, sliding to the other end of the couch, and his expression went as cold as Stiles had ever seen it.  “Kate Argent came of age, which is apparently 21 in whatever their tradition is.  Gerard decided that we needed another… culling, and that Kate ought to learn to hunt, since Chris had refused and moved out.  She didn’t need much convincing.  Gerard’s property extends far out into the woods.  It’s surrounded by electrified fencing.  They let us out and then hunted us down, one by one.”

“One by one,” Stiles repeated dully, his eyes refusing to focus.

“It took years.  They only took one of us every three or four months.  My parents were able to hide what was happening from me for a while.  Said my cousins were sold, my aunt went to live with some of the Argents down south.  Until my parents were taken, about a year before I manage to escape.  I don’t think they knew Gerard meant to kill us all.”

“But… why?” Stiles asked, feeling irredeemably ignorant.

Derek’s shrug could almost be mistaken for nonchalant, but Stiles caught the hard twitch of a muscle in his jaw.  “He hates what we are.  Thinks we’re unnatural and dangerous and need to be put down.  I’m pretty sure he just decided to start with my family.”

Stiles tried to run back through what Deaton had said in case there was anything else Stiles needed to know right now.  Fuck, Deaton had said that the Argents’ werewolf had killed family to become an alpha.  Derek sat perched on the edge of his seat, every muscle tensed like he was ready to run.  Or attack.  He looked like he was capable of anything.  But Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to believe that Derek could have killed anyone in his family – that seemed to be the only thing important to him, maybe even more so because they were gone.  Stiles knew the feeling.

“So…” he began slowly.  “You’re the only one of your family left.”

“Yes,” Derek said.

It was a flat-out lie.  Stiles couldn’t have said how he knew, but he’d interviewed plenty of people in his career, and there were tells.  Derek was just getting used to speaking again; he probably hadn’t gotten the hang of lying yet.

What the lie meant, though, Stiles couldn’t even begin to imagine.  It was probably significant, since he’d felt no indication that Derek had been less than brutally honest about everything else, but it was all too much for Stiles to process.  He sat in silence just to give himself time to think.

The Argents – some of them, at least – hunted their own werewolves for sport, and Derek had managed to escape.  There was nothing to tie Derek back to them, but Stiles couldn’t imagine they would simply give up looking for him.  Derek didn’t have the right to press charges himself, though he could, theoretically, make a statement to the police and possibly start an investigation, but the Argents probably weren’t worried about Derek going to the authorities.  If they had any brains, they’d be more concerned with Derek coming back to tear them apart. 

Hell, Stiles wasn’t sure why Derek hadn’t tried already – he was certainly angry enough.  Maybe he thought he’d be able to amass a pack in the woods to help him.  But everything Stiles had seen made him think Derek just wanted to run, to put as much space between himself and the people who slaughtered his family, going as far as he could without crossing county lines, which were patrolled by Services.  Good for him.  If he tried to go up against the Argents, all he’d get was dead, and Stiles hoped that living free of them, just living _free_ , would be revenge enough for Derek.

“Okay,” Stiles muttered to himself, staring at his shoes as he tried to figure out the next step.  Things had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated, but the basic plan was still the same – keep Derek safe until Deaton could get him up north.  “Okay.  I’ll figure this out.  We’ll just… keep doing what we’re doing until I get word from Deaton.  It’ll all work out.”

When Stiles finally glanced up, Derek didn’t look convinced.  But Derek didn’t really look _anything_ , so Stiles had nothing to go on.  When he scooted towards Derek’s end of the sofa, Derek didn’t move away.  But when Stiles stretched out a hand to squeeze Derek’s shoulder like he normally would, Derek stiffened, and Stiles pulled his hand back.  “Thank you,” Stiles said softly.  “For telling me.  I know it’s not… Just, thank you.”

Derek nodded stiffly, Stiles nodded back, and then Stiles went to his computer, not sure he would ever want to eat again and aware it would be hours before he could fall asleep.  He scoured the internet for reliable sources on werewolf hunting until his eyes burned and he was too disgusted to read any more.  He dragged himself to bed and got in still wearing his clothes.

When he woke up the next morning, Derek was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: themes of slavery, references to violence and minor character death

“You look like shit,” Scott said earnestly.  Helpful, helpful Scott.

Well, Stiles thought as he rubbed at his temple, it wasn’t actually Scott’s fault that Stiles couldn’t tell him anything.  Scott’s sudden foray into perceptiveness just happened to come at a very inconvenient time.  Maybe it had something to do with the sudden responsibility of raising a daughter.

“I’m fine,” Stiles mumbled.  “It’s just been a long day and I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.”  Technically true.

When Stiles glanced up, Scott’s eyes had widened alarmingly.  “Oh my god.  _Oh_ my god, dude.  You got dumped.”

“What?”

“It totally makes sense now,” Scott said, obviously torn between being impressed with his own cleverness and expressing sympathy for Stiles.  “You were all relaxed and Zen before, and now you look like you got hit by a truck.  You were dumped by your secret girlfriend.”

Stiles was still struggling to catch up.  “What?  No.”

“Secret boyfriend?” Scott tried again.

The denial was on Stiles’ lips when he realized that, from Scott’s point of view, that wasn’t actually a bad deduction.  And if Scott believed it, he probably wouldn’t ask too many more questions.  Stiles sighed.  “All right, fine.  He dumped me last night.  Can we not rub my face in it while I still have _some_ dignity?”

Scott looked immediately chastised.  “Yeah, no, sorry.  I just wish you’d told me.  I know I’ve been kind of a shitty friend lately, but, well…”

“Tiny human infant partially dependent on you for survival.  I get it.”

“Tell you what, you’ve been picking up my slack for weeks now.  Why don’t you cut out of here early and I’ll finish the reports.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped.  “No, c’mon, your helpless spawn takes precedence over my—”  _Lost werewolf_.

“No, _really_ ,” Scott insisted, his smile a little grim.  “A few extra compulsory hours away from the endless squalling?  You’d be doing _me_ a favor.”  Then the smile dropped completely, replaced by a look of horror.  “Please don’t tell Allison I said that.”

Despite himself, Stiles laughed.  “If you’re sure.  I’d really appreciate it, and if Allison asks, you can totally blame it on me and my delicate emotional state.  Seriously, though, I could use a little time to, y’know.”  _Go looking for the runaway werewolf_.  “Get my head together.”

“Hey, no problem,” Scott said, throwing his arms around Stiles and pounding him on the back in what Scott probably considered a comforting fashion.  “And if you ever, you know, want to talk about it…”

“You’ll watch the baby while I weep into Allison’s shoulder?”

“You know me so well,” Scott sighed, giving Stiles a final squeeze before releasing him.

Stiles darted out of the station as soon as he could, miraculously managing to avoid pretty much everyone on the way out.  He only had a few hours of daylight left and still hadn’t had time to come up with a search plan other than “head into the woods.”

As soon as he got home, he changed into warmer clothes and began shoving things into a backpack – a flashlight, a hat and gloves, some water bottles, a map of the area that probably wasn’t going to do a damned bit of good, a slightly rusty compass that still seemed to point more or less north.  God, this was a terrible idea; he didn’t even know where to start looking.

Stiles slipped into the guest bedroom on the off-chance that Derek had left some kind of clue behind.  Of course he hadn’t – from what Stiles could tell, he’d taken off with nothing but a single set of clothes, thankfully including the coat.  Stiles sank down on the edge of the bed.  The woods surrounding Beacon Hills went on for miles before they even got to the county line.  The only place Stiles knew Derek wouldn’t be was near the Argent estate, not only for obvious reasons, but also because he had said there was at least one wolf there who knew his scent…

_Derek’s scent._

Stiles’ head snapped up and he went straight for the closet.  Sure enough, crumpled in a pile on the floor were some of the clothes that Derek had worn, but that Stiles hadn’t gotten around to washing yet.  He picked up one of the shirts.

It was risky as hell.  The werewolves – probably betas – who had gotten close enough to smell Derek’s scent on him before had been immediately deferential, but Stiles could only guess what would happen if he should encounter another alpha.  As far as he knew, there were very few feral alphas, and even if he encountered one, he was pretty obviously not a werewolf and there was a chance he’d be spared if he smelled like he belonged to another alpha.  Though there was a more or less equal chance he’d be ripped to shreds for wandering into the wrong alpha’s territory.  He had found so little information about werewolves in the wild.

But it was his only shot at finding Derek, assuming he could find a beta or an omega willing to track the scent for him.  Otherwise, Stiles knew, he’d do nothing but wander the woods for hours – Derek hadn’t managed to stay hidden for so long by accident.  But how long could he really hide from the Argents now?  How many people in Deaton’s network knew that someone was harboring an untagged alpha?

Stiles still trusted Deaton, but for all he knew, the Argents had ears in that network.  If nothing else, they’d at least _suspect_ the alpha was Derek, and Stiles knew they’d go out looking for him sooner rather than later, with whatever wolf could track his scent.  Stiles would just have to do it first.

The long-sleeved grey t-shirt was loose on him, even over his own layers of shirts, but he had to cover it up with a jacket anyway – the temperature was already starting to drop.  And if Derek could pick up Stiles’ smell on clothes that had washed a hundred times, the jacket wouldn’t do much to mask Derek’s scent from other wolves.  Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, Stiles would soon find out.  After a decent amount of consideration, he unbuckled his holster from his belt and left his gun at home.  It wouldn’t protect him from werewolves, but the sight of it might scare off potential allies.  He would just have to hope he didn’t run into any dangerous humans.

He gripped the steering wheel hard as he drove, parking at the end of a dirt cul-de-sac not far from where he lived.  There was an embankment at the edge of an undeveloped tract of land that led back into the woods – the closest entry point from Stiles’ house – and he guessed that was where Derek had gone first.

Stiles grabbed his backpack and slammed the door of the Jeep much harder than he meant to.  He figured he had an hour, maybe an hour and a half of daylight left.  Goddamn it.  What had he said to Derek last night?  Stiles couldn’t even remember.  Something about how he’d “take care of it.”  Fuck, he’d been so freaked out at the thought of the Argents getting their hands on Derek.  With all that agitation, he’d probably convinced Derek that he was actually about to turn him in to the Argents out of self-preservation.

If Stiles found him, but Derek had decided he didn’t trust Stiles and wanted to take his chances in the woods instead… well, there was nothing Stiles could do about that.  Still, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make sure Derek knew that if he wanted to go north, forever out of the reach of the Argents, Stiles would do everything in his power to make that happen.

It took Stiles a distressingly long time to realize that his frustrated stomping through the woods was probably scaring every living creature away.  So he forced himself to slow down, step lightly, even though he didn’t want to make any of them think he was trying to sneak up on them, either.  Every few minutes, he tried speaking aloud softly, knowing the werewolves would be able to hear him.  Luckily, Stiles had had enough experience talking to himself that he didn’t feel _too_ ridiculous.

“Hello, hi,” he mumbled, glancing around carefully in the dying sunlight.  “I, um, come in peace?  I’m looking for a friend of mine.  I… fuck, this all sounds really suspicious, but he’s in danger, and I want to help him.  I’m unarmed, and I realize that all of you are fully capable of tearing me limb from limb, though I would really prefer that didn’t happen.  Anyway, I’m wearing his shirt – my friend’s – and I just need someone to help me track his scent.  I’m not interested in… in capturing anyone.  I just need to find him and talk to him, I swear.  If he doesn’t want my help, I’ll leave.  But I have no idea where he is, and I could really use the help of a werewolf to find him.”

Stiles kept it up – the careful walking and the steady, murmured monologue – for over an hour.  He checked his compass every few minutes, by flashlight when the sun finally set, and prayed he really was going in the direction he thought he was going.  He didn’t think he was actually lost, but he was a lot less sure of himself in the dark.  The moon would be full in a few days, but it was a cloudy night and the tree canopy was surprisingly thick.  He hadn’t seen a single werewolf, but he’d heard the occasional rustling in the undergrowth, and several times, he’d known without looking that there were eyes focused on him.  Certainly no volunteers, though.

But he kept going, trying to keep the fear out of his voice while sounding calm and nonthreatening.  He didn’t say Derek’s name or the word “alpha,” just in case, but any of the werewolves would probably be able to smell it on him anyway.  Eventually, losing hope (and the feeling in his fingers, even with the gloves on), he started heading back toward the Jeep – or where he thought it was.

“So, look, I can’t stay out here for much longer, because it’s getting cold, but if you know of a werewolf with this scent, please just tell him his friend is looking for him.  He knows where to find me, but I’ll be back tomorrow if I can, because this is really impor— _oomph_!”

Stiles hadn’t even heard it coming until he was shoved hard to the forest floor, the wind knocked out of him.  He gasped for breath, struggling under the hot, hard weight on top of him.  Well, he’d found himself a werewolf.  At least that half of his plan had worked.  It was a shame he probably wasn’t going to survive long enough to implement the other half, though.

“What the fuck are you _doing_ out here, Stiles?” the creature on top of him hissed in his ear, and oh, okay, it was Derek.  So that part of the plan had worked, too.  Then it was a double shame that Derek was probably going to kill him, if the tone of his voice was any indication.  And the claws.  Stiles had never actually seen them fully extended, but there were definitely a set of claw tips pressing into his neck.

“At the moment?” Stiles wheezed.  “Pissing myself.  Please don’t kill me.  But if you do, make it quick?”

Suddenly, the weight was off his back and he was being yanked up to his feet by – _ow_ – clawed hands.  There was just enough light for him to get a good look at Derek.  Stiles knew about the red eyes, and now had first-hand experience with the claws, thank you very much, but he had to hold back a totally manly shriek at the sight of Derek with _fangs_.  They were glistening white and looked terrifyingly sharp, but even as Stiles watched, they receded back into regular human canines, and Derek was just Derek again.

Didn’t mean he was any less pissed off, though.  “Are you wearing one of my shirts?  Are you _insane_?  You just decided to wander out into werewolf territory _reeking_ of—”

Stiles drew himself up to his full height, which was actually the same as Derek’s, even though Derek had what felt like several hundred pounds of muscle on him, plus the whole supernatural strength thing.  “It was the only way I could think of to find you, since you bolted out of my house last night without a word.”

Derek gaped at him like Stiles had genuinely lost his mind.  “I left to keep you _safe_ , you idiot.”

“You… what?”

“We’re not safe out here,” Derek said, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, my Jeep is—”

“I know where your Jeep is,” Derek said, scooping Stiles over his shoulder like he was a damsel in distress and not a _grown-ass man_ with a concealed weapons permit and access to all sorts of firearms.  But even in his inverted state, Stiles was pleased to note that he’d been right about the direction his car was in.  He may have been insane, but at least he hadn’t been insane and _lost_.

Stiles had estimated it would take them at least 45 extremely uncomfortable minutes to get back out of the woods, but Derek made it in less than ten.  He deposited Stiles by the driver’s side door and growled “Get in,” not allowing Stiles time to determine which way gravity went.

But Stiles was able to dig the car keys out of his pocket with shaking hands, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, Derek commanded him to drive the moment they were both in the car.  “Drive where?” Stiles asked, trying not to sound as peeved as he felt.  He’d found Derek; that had been the goal.

“Not your house.  Somewhere populated.  I don’t think anyone’s tracking me, but if they are, it’s harder to track a car.”

“But you were able to find—”

“I figured you came in the same way I did, and I could follow your scent back through the woods anyway.  Now _drive_.”

“Bossy,” Stiles muttered, pulling back onto the paved road.

“ _Alpha_ ,” Derek shot back, and Stiles couldn’t help but laugh.  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Derek’s lip twitch, too.

But by the time Stiles had gotten to the highway, his irritation had returned.  “I can’t believe you just ran away like that.  That you actually thought I would turn you in.  I know we haven’t known each other that long, but I’m really fucking insulted.”

“Stiles, if I thought you were going to turn me in, would I have gotten into the car?”

 _Oh_.  “No.”

“I told you, I ran away to keep you safe.”

“From what?  Deaton’s the only one who knows you’re with me, and he doesn’t even know who you are.  He just knows you’re an untagged alpha.”

“How many untagged alphas are running free around Beacon Hills right now, Stiles?”

“Well, _none_ until you decided to head for the hills.”

Stiles didn’t have to take his eyes off the road to know that Derek was glaring at him. “By now the Argents will have heard that somebody’s harboring a runaway alpha.”

“But they don’t know it’s me!”

“They don’t know _yet_.  The longer I stay with you, the more likely they are to find out.”

“And what if they do?  I’m law enforcement, and the last thing they want to do is get the authorities involved.  Not to mention the fact that they haven’t tagged you.  There’s no legal proof you belong to them, that you _ever_ belonged to them.”

“You think they’re relying on legal proof?” Derek said with an incredulous almost-laugh.  “Stiles, if they try to take me back or kill me and you get in the way, they’ll kill you.”

Stiles was gripping the steering wheel so hard that if he’d had his own claws, they’d be out by now.  “What aren’t you telling me, Derek?  Because this goes beyond hunting.  Not that that isn’t sick enough, but they’ve been doing that for a long time.  They know how to hide it, and if you haven’t tried to expose them by now, they’ve got to know you’re not planning on it.  So why do they want to find you so badly?”

“Other hunters will know they let an alpha escape.  These aren’t people that take humiliation lightly. And Kate…” Derek said quietly.  Then he fell silent, and Stiles forced himself to calm down before asking Derek any more questions.  He kept driving west.  He wanted to find somewhere to park and the only place he could think of that was both populated and somewhat private was an old drive-in movie theater just out of town.  It was the last in the area, and Stiles prayed that it was open and showing a movie tonight.

Which was how he and Derek ended up parked in front of a giant screen playing _From Here to Eternity_.  The guy in the ticket booth wouldn’t give Stiles a discount, despite the fact that he’d missed the first half of the movie.  But he didn’t want to risk anyone, even that pimply teenager, getting a good look at Derek, just in case, so Stiles paid full price and pulled the Jeep into one of the spots in the back.  Now he just had to make his grumbling stomach ignore the heavenly scent of buttered popcorn.

Stiles had questions he needed answered.  He just didn’t want to make Derek feel like he had to run again.

But when Stiles turned to Derek, illuminated by the flicker of the black and white screen, Derek looked exhausted, like he had the first night at Stiles’ house.  “Ask me whatever you want,” Derek said quietly, staring blankly ahead.

Stiles didn’t even know where to begin.  He just went with the first question that popped into his head.  “Who is it that knows your scent well enough to track you, and how many of them are there?”

Derek actually flinched.  “Just one that I’m sure of,” he said.  “My uncle Peter.”

“But you said you didn’t have any family left.”

“I don’t,” Derek growled, his eyes burning red.  “Peter isn’t family.  Not… not anymore.”

Worrying his lower lip with his teeth, Stiles glanced up at the movie screen while he tried to decide whether to ask Derek what that meant.  But he only had to wait a few seconds before Derek began speaking again, and maybe it was doing Derek good to actually tell this to another person.  Stiles found it hard to believe he’d told anyone else.

“I didn’t figure all of it out until only Peter, my sister, and I were left.  At some point, Peter cut a deal with Gerard to be his… well, his guard dog.  He stayed with Gerard and Kate when they went out hunting, and if it looked like they were going to be overpowered or if they were in danger of serious injury, Peter… stepped in.”

“Oh god,” Stiles whispered.  “And he’d be… he’d be willing to hunt you down, even now?”

“He’d be leading the charge,” Derek said bitterly.  “If he’s the one who kills me, he becomes an alpha.  Even though there’s no pack left, he gets the title and the power.”

“Then how did you get it?  You’re not wearing the right collar, and you told me you never wanted to be an alpha.”

“I didn’t,” Derek said, his voice breaking, and this time Stiles almost told him he didn’t have to continue.  But now Stiles knew Derek needed to get this… whatever it was… out.  Stiles knew the look – it was somebody so burdened by what they’d done that they were about to confess, no interrogation needed.  Seeing that look on Derek’s face was chilling.

“My father was our alpha,” Derek started, speaking so softly that Stiles could barely hear him.  “I think Peter assumed that once the Argents killed my father, it would automatically fall to him as his younger brother, so he didn’t bother to strike the killing blow himself.  Maybe he still had some humanity left back then, or maybe one of the Argents just got there first, I don’t know.  But it didn’t work.  Laura – my older sister – became the alpha.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  My parents had never explained how that worked – they might not have known themselves.  But Peter had been helping to kill the pack, not protect it.  And Laura… Laura did her best to protect me.”

“You were the last one?”

Derek nodded.  “Laura knew they’d take her first, and that Peter would try to kill her himself this time, so she… she made me promise…”

Fuck, Stiles knew where this was going.  Deaton’s rumor had technically been right – he’d just gotten the motive wrong.

“I was able to follow them into the woods, but not close enough to attack without exposing myself.  I don’t know how long the others lasted, before, but Laura made it a long time.  It got dark, and if the Argents hadn’t had Peter with them, Laura and I could probably have taken them out, even with the wolfsbane weapons.  If we had, the rest of the Argents – even the ones that don’t hunt – would have had us put down or turned us over to Services.  But at least we would have stopped Kate and Gerard.”

“Come on, you can’t think that would be better than—”

“Than what?” Derek snapped, his eyes burning red and staying that way.  “Than not being fast enough to catch the poisoned arrow before it hit her heart?  Than hearing her last words begging me to do what I’d promised?  Better than watching the life drain out of her eyes when I slit her throat?”

“Derek,” Stiles said softly, completely unaware of the tears burning in his own eyes.  “Derek, you didn’t have any choice.  I don’t know a lot about werewolves, but I know that you can’t heal from a wolfsbane arrow to the heart.  You probably spared her a lot of pain.  And you would have been next.”

For some reason, that made Derek jerk away hard from the hand that Stiles had been reaching out to him.  “I caught them by surprise, is all,” Derek mumbled.  “They hadn’t thought to put an alpha collar on me.  But they already had one on Peter, so I was fast enough to get away.  I still don’t know how I survived climbing over the fence.  Probably adrenaline.  It took me months to heal.”

“How… how did you manage to hide for so long?” Stiles asked shakily.  “They had to have been looking for you.”

“I don’t know that either.  I ran as far as I could before I passed out, and then holed up in a cave until I healed.  If they’d wanted to, they could’ve used Peter to hunt me down.  I can only guess they didn’t because…”  Derek took a deep breath.  “Whatever they did to Peter for letting me get away left him in no shape to track me.  They’re… Stiles, you have no idea what they’re capable of.  They’ve owned us for so long, they know more about us – about what hurts us, what kills us – than we do.”

Stiles’ jaw tensed.  “Well, if they want you, they’re going to have to go through me first.  And I know how completely unthreatening that sounds, but I have guns, and friends with guns, and a terrifying boss who I’m pretty sure has access to anti-aircraft weaponry and is itching for the slightest reason to use it.”

“Stiles, if you put up a fight—”

“You’re goddamn right I’m putting up a fight!”

Derek growled, his eyes flashing.  “If you put up a fight, they could easily have Peter kill you and before any of your gun-happy friends get there.  And they can frame me for it, because my scent is all over your house.”

“Exactly.  Your scent is all over my house, so there’s no point in running away now,” Stiles insisted stubbornly.  “And did I mention that I, myself, carry a gun?”

“Which would not even slow Peter down.”

Stiles didn’t mention that he could requisition wolfsbane bullets from the stock at the station, though he’d have to have a reason and it would start a paper trail.  “The gun’s for the Argents.  I don’t give a shit how rich they are, what they’re doing is illegal and seriously sick.  If they show up at my door, I’m pulling a Han Solo and shooting first.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, voice betraying the slightest hint of alarm, “calm down.  Your heart is beating too fast.”

Suddenly, Stiles realized he was so furious he’d been grinding his teeth.  But wait… “How do you know that?”

The curl of Derek’s lip was almost a smile.  “I could probably hear it a mile away – this close, it’s deafening.  Plus, you stink of rage.”

Stiles was dumbfounded; he was vaguely aware that werewolf senses were extremely sharp, but he hadn’t known just how sharp.  Or how they easily could cut through a human’s bullshit.  For a second, Stiles thought he’d have to be careful around Derek… before realizing that there was really no way he could be.  Not if Derek could smell emotions.  Still, he couldn’t suppress his curiosity.  “What does rage smell like?”

Derek wrinkled his nose.  “Ashes.  Ozone.  It doesn’t smell good on you.”

“Then we’d better not run into Gerard or Kate.  _Fuck_ , I wish… I wish we had probable cause for a warrant.  They can’t be using legally registered weapons, and that might be enough to start an investigation.”

“They’re too good at covering their tracks.  They won’t just have the artillery sitting around in gun safes.”

This time Stiles was the one who growled.  “What if I could get you in there?  Could you find something?  Sniff it out?”

Derek bit back hard on something that might have been a whimper, and Stiles realized what he’d just suggested.  “Shit.  Sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.  You don’t have to go back there.  You’re _never_ going back there, I swear.”  He reached out a hand, expecting to lay it on Derek’s shoulder, but before he could, Derek pressed Stiles’ palm to his cheek, nuzzling in.

Stiles held his breath, acutely aware of his heart speeding up now that he knew Derek could hear it.  Had that happened every time he’d touched Derek?  Or Derek touched him?  Had Derek been listening?

Almost as soon as Stiles had the though, Derek was pulling away, looking momentarily embarrassed until his features settled into something more like his usual disapproving scowl.  “What the hell did you think you were doing, charging into the woods wearing my shirt?”

The emotional about-face left Stiles stammering.  “It was the only way I could think to find you without canvassing every square inch of the woods.  I hoped I’d find another werewolf who would recognize your scent and lead me to you.”

“Stiles, you don’t just smell like me,” Derek growled, obviously exasperated but not quite meeting Stiles’ eyes.  “You smell like _us_.”

Oh.  _Oh_.  What?  There were so many questions Stiles could pull out of that, none of which he could actually articulate, so he went with “Was there a better way?  Do you carry a cell phone I don’t know about?”

“You shouldn’t have been in the woods at all.”

“Fat chance, buddy.  I grew up here.  I’ve been going into those woods since I was a kid.  Admittedly not quite that deep, or at night, or while wearing an alpha werewolf’s t-shirt, but—”  He stopped dead in his tracks.  Something had suddenly occurred to him.  It was so stupidly simple that Stiles, in full-on save-the-day mode, had never even considered it. 

“Did you… Do you even want to come back with me?  I just assumed… I know it’s taking longer than I thought to get you transport, but I promise I’ll get you up north, even if I have to drive you myself.  But only if you want to.  If you want to… to take your chances in the woods, I wouldn’t blame you.”  Stiles laughed humorlessly, scrubbing a hand across his forehead.  “I’m guessing you were doing just fine until I showed up.  Or until Isaac did.  So if that’s what you want, I’m not going to keep you against your will.” 

Derek wasn’t saying anything, just looking at him, and Stiles, now acutely aware of his body’s reactions, felt a light sweat break out at his temples as his heart thudded unevenly.  “I can take you back to the woods.  Or I can take you a few counties over.  It won’t keep you any safer from Services and I won’t be able to help you if the police get a hold of you again, but at least you’ll be farther away from the Argents.”

Derek was still staring at him and it was like jamming the “on” button that ran Stiles’ mouth.  “It’s totally up to you.  I don’t—  I know you didn’t ask for my help, or my opinion, but I… I’d like for you to stay.”

Stiles had intended to end that thought with _until we can get you to sanctuary_ , but for some reason, his mouth chose the moment before to stop.  So he was shocked when Derek simply said, “Okay.”

“O-okay?  You’ll come back with me?”

Derek’s eyes flitted briefly back to the screen in front of him, which Stiles had completely forgotten about.  “Well, I’d like to finish watching the movie first.”

“You… what?”

“The movie,” Derek said evenly, like they hadn’t just been discussing his possible capture and death.  “I think I saw part of it once, a long time ago.”  Then he shifted in his seat to face the screen.

Stiles’ mind tried to switch gears too fast and ground to a halt; it had been a while since _that_ had happened.  In the midst of all this insanity, Derek was screwing with him just a little bit, and Stiles couldn’t help but admire that.  He let out a helpless snort of a laugh and this time he was sure he saw the corner of Derek’s mouth curl up.  Just a little bit.

&&&

They hardly said a word to each other for the rest of the movie or on the drive home. Stiles was turning Derek’s words over and over in his head.  Derek had killed a member of his own family to end her suffering and help him escape the same fate, but it was clearly tearing him up inside, even if it had been what his sister wanted and had managed to keep Derek alive.  Stiles still got the feeling Derek was leaving something out, but he wasn’t about to push.  He was mostly just amazed that Derek had held it together for so long, and done it by himself.

He was so used to taking care of himself, no wonder he’d taken off when he got rattled.  But Stiles wanted to make damned sure Derek knew that he wasn’t alone in this.  So as he put away his own scarf and coat in the hall closet, then began to unpack the bag he’d taken into the woods, he muttered, “You— Like I said, I’m not going to keep you against your will.  Though at least do me a favor of leaving me a note, even if it’s just, like, _Yo, Stiles, peace out_.”  He looked up briefly to see Derek half-heartedly glowering at him.  “Because that’s totally what you’d say.  But I want you to know that I’m not going to— That I’m on your side.  I haven’t figured out what we’re going to do yet, but between the two of us, we’re going to make sure you’re out of danger.  And that Kate, Gerard, and Peter are stopped.”

Stiles had been fiddling with the flashlight, because it was easier than looking at Derek as he spoke, and he was trying to keep his heart rate even.  But it must not have worked, because suddenly Derek was right up in his space, a big warm hand around his forearm.  “Stiles, why do you even care?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles looked Derek in the eye.  “Because what they did to you is so wrong that I don’t even have the words for it.  Because you deserve to make your own choices about your life.  Because it’s what my parents would have done.  Because… because you’re my friend, and I want to do whatever I can to help you.”

Derek’s eyes were unreadable, but Stiles didn’t have more than a second to worry about it before Derek was pressed flush against his front from chest to knees, Derek’s nose buried against Stiles’ neck.  “O-okay,” Stiles stammered.  He didn’t object to the closeness – in fact, he’d missed it – but he had no frame of reference with which to respond to this particular situation.  It wasn’t a hug; Stiles was pretty sure hugs traditionally involved arms, and though Derek’s hand was still lightly encircling Stiles’ wrist, his arms were most definitely not wrapped around Stiles.  But it was far, far more intimate than simply standing close together, because in addition to breathing deeply, Derek was now _nuzzling_ against Stiles’ neck, and – _hey, okay_ – that was a very sensitive spot to have a nose and mouth pressed against and still allow Stiles to remain upright.

 _Werewolf thing_ , Stiles told himself.  _Totally platonic, non-seductive werewolf thing_.  Even if he did really sort of want Derek to open his mouth, warm and wet, and make it a neck-sucking thing.  Or, alternatively, Stiles could tilt his head just a bit until his mouth was in range to make it a tongue-sucking thing.

But now that he knew Derek could apparently smell certain emotions – well, arousal was also an actual smell, even to human noses, if it got strong enough – Stiles tried to be very, very careful with his thoughts.  So yes, he’d been dreaming pretty explicit things about Derek – that gorgeous body, so obviously starved for touch, would feel so good under his hands – but he wasn’t about to take advantage of the situation.

True, Derek was more than physically capable of fending off any unwanted advances, but was he emotionally capable?  As hard as Stiles had tried to treat Derek as an equal – and he wasn’t sure he’d always managed it – the fact was that Derek was brought up as a slave.  Despite the fact that Stiles had yet to see him display any behavior that was even _close_ to servile… it didn’t feel right.  Not like this.  Not when Derek was so clearly vulnerable from spilling out some of the most horrific parts of his life to Stiles.

Even so, Stiles wasn’t going to deny Derek the physical closeness if he needed it, or… whatever this sniffing thing was.  _You don’t just smell like me_ , Derek had said.  _You smell like us_.  Stiles had yet to figure out if Derek thought that was a good or a bad thing, but Derek still had his nose pressed just behind Stiles’ ear and was inhaling deeply, so Stiles figured his particular aroma couldn’t be _that_ offensive.  And he felt like an idiot just standing there, being sniffed, so he mirrored Derek and grasped Derek’s other wrist lightly with his free hand, stroking his thumb over the thin skin on the underside.

It must have been the right thing to do, because Derek whined softly and pressed in a little.  There was no help for Stiles’ heart rate by then, because if Derek got any closer, scent wasn’t even going to be an issue; Derek would be confronted with indisputable evidence that Stiles was aroused.  But if Derek was picking up on any of that, he didn’t seem to mind.  So they stayed like that, pressed together while Stiles quietly freaked out and Derek simply breathed him in.

Stiles didn’t know how long that went on, but it ended as abruptly as it had begun.  Responding to some cue that either Stiles couldn’t sense or existed only in Derek’s mind, Derek suddenly pulled away and walked back toward his bedroom.  Stiles fought the urge to follow him.

&&&

The way Stiles saw it, there were two options: he could try to drive Derek up to the sanctuary himself, or he could try to find a way to expose Gerard and Kate, which would take the price off Derek’s head and give Deaton more time to find transportation. 

The first option was… not ideal.  Even if the Jeep could make the 2,500-ish mile (one-way) trip and Stiles could find a plausible reason to disappear for a week, winter seemed to be coming in early this year.  He’d be driving his poor baby through the snow and ice without even a clear idea of where to go, since even Deaton didn’t know the exact location of the sanctuary.  Yes, it was something Stiles could find out with a lot of badgering – and he was no slouch at badgering – but then Kate and Gerard would not only get away with the murders they’d already committed, but surely future ones as well.  Derek had said there were other packs at the estate, and the Argents were certainly rich enough to buy more families of werewolves.

And even if Derek never went near his former prison again, Stiles would need him to get an arrest and conviction.  He knew things that no one else on the outside did, and unlike the werewolves that were currently in the Argents’ possession, he had nothing left to lose by standing up to them.  Stiles might not be able to get them on murder, but they had to be breaking all kinds of weapons restrictions in addition to the abuse, which he was sure they couldn’t hide entirely.  Werewolf testimony _was_ accepted in court, though its weight depended on the sympathies of the judge and the jury.

Whenever he thought about the Argents, Stiles had never been so tempted to kick a door down and just start shooting.  But never mind the murder charges he’d face; if he didn’t get Kate and Gerard _and_ Peter (plus any other werewolves they used as bodyguards – Stiles figured they had to have upped security after Derek escaped) all in one go, both he and Derek were dead.

“Do you think we could get Chris Argent to flip?” Stiles asked Derek one afternoon, out of the silence they had been sitting in.

“On his own father and sister?  Not a chance.  He might not approve of what they’re doing, but he’s not going to get them locked up for it.  Besides, he’d be guilty of being an accessory.”

It had been a long shot anyway, but despite what Derek had said, Stiles might still be able to make it work.  If Allison was informed what was going on and found out her father had known about it…

“There’s another option,” Derek said.  “It’s not a permanent solution, but it would buy us time.”  He paused, like he was having trouble forming the words, until he finally said, “You could tag me.”

If Derek was listening to Stiles’ heart at that moment, he would have heard it stop altogether.  “I’m sorry, _what_?”

The look on Derek’s face was infuriatingly blank.  “Tag me.  That way the Argents would have no legal claim to me.  Only you would.”

Stiles gaped.  “You really thing that’s going to stop them from k—”  He choked on the word.  “From coming after you?”

“No, but if they abduct or kill me, you can press charges.”

“Don’t—Jesus, why would you even think that?  That’s not going to happen.  I’m not going to _let_ that happen.”

Derek glared at him, and yeah, okay, maybe Stiles was in a little bit of denial.  Kate and Gerard were clearly capable of murder, and certainly Peter was, too, if he’d been ready to kill his own niece.

After a long moment, Stiles realized he’d been staring at Derek’s left wrist, the same one he’d been clutching the night before during their not-hug.  The same place Stiles’ name would go, tattooed with wolfsbane-infused ink so Derek’s body wouldn’t reject it.  So it would stay there permanently.

When Stiles looked up, Derek’s gaze had softened slightly, but it was still focused unwaveringly on Stiles.  “I would _own_ you, Derek,” Stiles said, his voice cracking.  “In the eyes of the law, you would be my _possession_.  You can’t tell me you want that.”

Derek remained silent, his mouth a grim line.  Stiles put his head in his hands, trying hard to think it through.  Whose decision was this?  Yes, it was Derek’s body to do with what he liked, but it was also Stiles’ _name_ , and he thought he deserved a say.  Stiles was pretty sure Derek wouldn’t see it as anything more than mere scribbling on his skin, but the rest of the world would.  _Stiles_ would.  The thought of actually owning another person, especially Derek, was anathema to everything his parents had taught him.

Everything in him told him it was wrong… everything except a tiny part of him that thrilled at the dangerously forbidden idea of his name being written on Derek’s very skin, so that even when he was finally free in the sanctuary, he would never be able to forget Stiles – and Stiles was disgusted at himself for it.  Derek was proposing this under a life and death situation, and he wouldn’t be able to take it back once this was over.  His judgment had to be compromised – otherwise, why would he be trusting Stiles with this?  How could he know that Stiles wouldn’t turn around and decide to keep him?

After a long time, Stiles raised his head.  His voice, when he spoke, was soft and hoarse.  “Right now, I’m not convinced it would do a damn thing to keep either of us safe.  If that changes, if I feel like tagging you would really, truly protect you—” Derek scowled, and Stiles rephrased.  “—would protect either of us, then yes, we’ll do it.  I just don’t want you to do something you’re going to regret when we’ve figured this out and you’re free.”

Stiles didn’t mean it as a rejection, and Derek didn’t look hurt.  So why did it feel like one?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: themes of slavery

The next two days passed in a haze, Stiles trying to figure out how to resolve all of it while still doing his job.  Badly.  Scott was covering for him the best he could, but even Chief Martin could tell Stiles’ head was somewhere else, and he received a very public chewing out for it.  Luckily – sort of – the imaginary break-up story had spread widely enough that everyone looked at him sympathetically instead of suspiciously.  It didn’t make him want to punch Scott any less for blabbing, but since it excused his distracted behavior, Stiles managed to restrain himself.

So when he returned home late from another long day of not punching Scott, the last thing on Stiles’ mind was the phase of the moon.  Which was why the crude scratching sounds coming from somewhere in the dark house made him automatically draw his gun.  He followed the sound down the hall, back through the living room, all the way to the back door… where a hunched, shirtless Derek was clawing at the door.  With actual claws.  Stiles backed up slowly and lowered the gun, but he didn’t put it back in its holster.

“Derek,” he said softly, trying desperately to calm his fear response.  He wasn’t prey and this was still Derek, even a Derek with claws and – holy god – fangs.  He’d only seen the fangs briefly out in the woods; they were far more disconcerting in his living room.  Stiles had seen werewolves in full beta shift, and this wasn’t quite it – and it definitely didn’t match any description of an alpha shift he’d ever read – but there were claws and fangs and eyes that didn’t look like they were going to un-red themselves any time soon and damn it, they should have _talked_ about this.  Stiles would really prefer not to get eaten, especially after all this time of very strategically not getting eaten.  Nobody would even know what a shame it was.

“Derek,” he said again.  Every one of Derek’s (many, many) muscles looked coiled to the point of pain, and there were long, deep gouges in the door, but he wasn’t moving to attack.  “Am I in danger?  Do I need to leave?”

“No,” Derek said, his voice strained but surprisingly human, considering… well, considering.  “I don’t want to hurt you.  I just want to run.”

The word came out as nearly a whimper and Stiles holstered his gun, but he didn’t move to approach Derek.  “You… you can’t.  It’s too dangerous out there.”

“I know.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.  I meant to ask you about this before.  What if I… if we took a ride in my car?  Drove really fast?  I can do that – I’ve got lights and a siren I can stick on the Jeep.”

Derek’s face contorted like he wanted to laugh but could quite choke out the sound.  “Wouldn’t help.”

Stiles racked his brain.  He had no idea how even domesticated werewolves dealt with this.  Most pharmacies stocked over-the-counter tranquilizers, but they were mild – more like sleeping pills – and Stiles couldn’t imagine they would do much for an alpha during the full moon.  The collar was keeping Derek from shifting fully, but Stiles had no idea what effect, if any, it had on his instincts – or, hell, even what his instincts were.

If either of them were in danger, really in danger, the station stocked werewolf-control methods… but Stiles would be damned if he was going to use heavy restraints or a weapon on Derek.  He just didn’t know how much he risked exposing himself or Deaton by calling the vet at home, but if it meant his or Derek’s life…  “Are you in pain?  I can try to get you tranquilizers or something from Deaton.”

Derek shook his head.  “No drugs.  _Please_.”

Right.  God only knew what the Argents had drugged him with at some time or other.  But Derek looked like he was about to go right out of his (mostly bare) skin.  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Stiles asked weakly.

“I think—” Derek started, breaking off to bury his face in something he had balled up in his left hand.  When his face re-emerged, it looked less pained, if only barely.  “Come here?”

Stiles froze.  He wanted to help Derek, but all of his own instincts told him _not_ to walk toward an agitated werewolf.  “You want me to…”

“I won’t hurt you.  Trust me.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, forcing himself to take a single step forward, unable to hear anything but the pounding of his own heart.

“ _Slowly_ ,” Derek growled.  “And try to calm down.”

Not comforting.  Not conducive to moving forward, either, but Derek still had that pleading look in his eyes, and Stiles was pretty sure Derek had no need to employ deception if all he wanted was to attack Stiles.  Besides, wolves chased their prey, right?  They didn’t wait for it to come to them.

So Stiles unbuckled his holster and set it on the coffee table as a show of good faith – not like the regular bullets would do a damn thing anyway except get him eaten slightly slower by an even angrier werewolf– and deepened his breathing as he edged gradually toward where Derek was hunched by the door.  He tried not to stare Derek in the eyes, which was remarkably difficult, as they were pretty much the only thing he could see in the dark room.

But as he got closer, his eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in through the blinds, and he could see that the item bunched up in Derek’s hand was some sort of dark fabric.  Derek broke his gaze away to sniff it again and Stiles was struck by a sudden thought.  He couldn’t be sure, because all the shirts he’d bought Derek were nearly identical, but it occurred to Stiles that it might be the shirt he’d worn into the woods.  The shirt that had both of their scents on it.

 _It smells like us_ , Derek had said.

Whatever it was, it seemed to help calm Derek, and Stiles felt his heartbeat slow a little, hoped Derek heard it, too.  His breathing had evened out by the time he was crouched down next to Derek, very carefully not touching him in case that would cause bad things.  “Okay, I’m here,” Stiles said softly.  “What do you—”

There was a split-second when Stiles mentally kicked himself for walking right into a mauling, but then he realized he probably wouldn’t have had time to self-reflect if it were an _actual_ mauling, and didn’t those involve more bleeding and screaming and less snuffling and hugging?  Because there was definitely some hardcore hugging going on.  Awkward hardcore hugging because, well, _claws_ , but there were big, warm (naked) arms around him and a nose pressed against his neck, and as confusingly enjoyable as it was, Stiles figured he’d better speak up before _all_ the air got squeezed out of his lungs.

He managed to make a noise like a dying squeak toy.  Not his proudest moment.

But it got Derek to loosen his grip, and though he didn’t move his face from Stiles’ neck, he muttered, “Sorry.”

“Oh, no worries,” Stiles said, wondering vaguely if his voice was ever going to drop back from that octave.  “Could have used a little warning there, but I’m mostly just happy my skin is still intact.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Derek repeated, and he seemed disproportionately confident for someone with fangs and claws and an entire body that was shaking with tension.  Except the shaking was beginning to lessen, and some of the tension was bleeding out of Derek’s body.  That left Stiles with an enormous armful of hot, half-naked, moon-crazy, hot (yes, hot was on there twice, once for temperature and once for appearance) werewolf.

Stiles brought his hands up to rest on Derek’s back, and Derek shivered – Stiles’ hands had to feel freezing in comparison.  He suppressed the absurd urge to rub Derek’s back and whisper “there, there.”  But he didn’t know _what_ to do, because now that the fear was starting to ebb, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins was causing said armful of hot werewolf to start to feel… stimulating.  Particularly with Derek’s mouth and nose still pressed to his neck.

“So, uh,” Stiles said, forcing his voice into a normal register.  “Is there anything I can do?”

“You’re doing it,” Derek said, his lips moving against Stiles’ throat, and now Stiles was the one shivering.  He just had to hope that Derek was too distracted to notice Stiles’… everything.  Heartbeat, breathing, hugely inappropriate semi that was not being at all discouraged by the way Derek kept sniffing him.  It had been years since Stiles had popped a boner at such an unfortunate time – his boss was _Lydia Martin_ with a _uniform_ and a _gun_.  Ironclad bodily self-control was a survival mechanism. 

But Chief Martin had never been curled half-naked in Stiles’ arms (well, not in the waking world) and there had definitely never been _sniffing_ , and holy fuck, Stiles was quickly developing a new kink.

So he did what he normally did when he was trying to push thoughts out of his brain: he talked.  “So, what would you normally do on the full moon?”

“In the woods?  Run.  Chase prey.”

“But there’s, uh, not going to be any chasing in here, right?  Because I’m not prey?”

Derek’s dark laugh was a soft puff of air across Stiles’ throat that left his skin tingling.  “Not as long as you don’t take off running.”

“Okay, good.  It’s just that I can’t help but notice that you’re sniffing me, like, kind of a lot, and I didn’t know if it was a ‘waiting for the cookies to come out of the oven’ kind of a thing.”

“No,” Derek snorted, obviously amused.  “Your smell… especially mixed with mine…  It helps.  Reminds me of my human side.”

Well, that explained the shirt.  Sort of.  “It’s just… until the other night, I didn’t think you liked how I smell.”

That actually made Derek look up, confused, and Stiles immediately missed the warmth against his neck.  “Why did you think that?”

“You didn’t want to wear the clothes that smelled like me, only, what was that, three weeks ago?”

Derek rolled his eyes like Stiles was clueless enough to cause him actual pain.  “I didn’t know you.  I didn’t like having a stranger’s smell on me.  Especially when I haven’t been used to the smell of humans… not meaning danger.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense,” Stiles said, feeling a bit slow on the uptake.

“Now you smell like… safety.  And me.  So it helps.”

“Um, alright.  Sniff away, I guess,” Stiles said with a shrug.

Derek’s glowing eyes glinted with amusement.  “I think I’ve got it under control.  For now.”

“Well,” Stiles said, trying not to sound disappointed.  “If you need another hit to keep from tearing me – or the door – to shreds, please don’t hesitate,” Stiles joked weakly, looking at the distressingly deep gouges.

“Sorry about that,” Derek said softly.

“Better the door than me.”  Before he knew what he was doing, Stiles reached out a hand to fit his fingertips against the grooves in the wood.  Derek’s hands weren’t that much larger than Stiles’, even when he was half wolfed-out.  With claws.  Claws that Stiles still hadn’t gotten a good look at.  Well, now was as good a time as any, and Derek seemed to have calmed down significantly, enough for Stiles to risk asking, “Hey, can I see your hand?”

Derek peered at him suspiciously enough to send Stiles into babble mode.  “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.  Or if you think you might—  But I’m just curious.  I’ve never seen your claws up close.  And I want to.  If that’s not too weird.  Is that weird?”

Derek was still looking at him like Stiles had just asked Derek to cluck like a chicken, but he slowly lifted the hand that wasn’t clutching the balled-up shirt.

Stiles peered at the claws extending from the tips of Derek’s fingers like thick, gnarled, _sharp_ fingernails.  He couldn’t be sure, but he thought they were slightly shorter than they’d been when he’d first come in.  Not that they weren’t still easily capable of ripping through his flesh like tissue paper, but Stiles found himself more impressed than frightened.  He even reached out and stroked his thumb up one of the claws, from where it emerged from Derek’s finger all the way to the tip.  “Wow,” he whispered.

He looked at Derek, who sort of shrugged awkwardly, and Stiles realized all the comments he was about to make about how awesome it would be to actually be Wolverine were completely inappropriate.  This wasn’t a comic book – it was Derek’s _life_.  And it wasn’t a superpower – it was the thing that kept him perpetually in bondage.

Still, though, the part of Stiles that was still (and would always be) a nerdy teenager had to admit that claws and fangs – when they weren’t threatening to bury themselves in Stiles’ softer parts – were pretty damn cool.  He couldn’t help his curiosity.  “What would happen if you weren’t wearing the collar?”

“I could shift into full beta form, at least.  But I don’t have any practice controlling myself without it because I’ve had it on since I was twelve.  Now, since… since I’m an alpha, I have to work harder at holding back, even with the collar.  It was easier in the woods, because I could run, and there were always other werewolves to run with, even if they weren’t pack.”

Stiles was still holding Derek’s hand, watching the claws shift in and out by a few millimeters as Derek wrestled with control while talking about running free.  “Is there really a different alpha form?  I’ve read descriptions, but I’ve never seen any pictures.”

“I think there is.  But I’ve never seen it, and as far as I know, no one in my family had, either.  We’ve all been collared too long.  But supposedly it’s a form much closer to an actual wolf, only bigger and… uglier.”

Stiles was a little taken aback by that – he couldn’t imagine any form of Derek as ugly.  Even the claws, which never entirely ceased to be terrifying, weren’t ugly, really.  And Derek’s fangs, which were still visible but had long since receded enough for him to be able to talk, were gleaming white and just as intriguing as the claws.

Stiles wished he could see Derek shift, really shift all the way, even if it was just into his beta form.  But he felt the tightly coiled power in Derek’s mostly human body and figured that if anyone could make a full alpha shift, it would be Derek.  Mindlessly, Stiles reached up to touch the silver around Derek’s neck.  “I wish I could take this off you.  Just let you… be you.”

Unexpectedly, Derek flinched away.  He pulled his hand back and Stiles could see the claws lengthen significantly.  “No,” Derek growled, taking a few seconds to calm himself down, and though Stiles didn’t panic, he tried very hard to concentrate on not smelling like a fat, juicy rabbit.  Whatever that smelled like.

“I mean,” Derek said after a minute, his voice low and rough, “if I could be free in the woods, away from people, then yes.  I’d want the collar off.  But right now… I told you, I never learned to control myself without it, and I have no idea what would happen if it came off.  I’d probably hurt someone.  You… most of the time, your smell calms me, but when you’re afraid, you smell like _prey_.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Stiles said, setting a hand on Derek’s shoulder and pulling him closer.  “I get startled the first time I see you do something wolfy, but I’m not really afraid anymore.”

“You should be,” Derek said miserably, burying his face in Stiles’ neck and resuming the sniffing.  How peculiar, Stiles thought, that something that had been unnerving just a few minutes ago was now almost reassuring.

Stiles held Derek again, since it seemed to calm his shaking, and stroked his hair.  “Maybe when you get up north,” he mused.  “I don’t know how the sanctuary works, but maybe you won’t have to wear a collar at all.  You’ll learn to control it and you can just be yourself.”

It sounded too good to be true, even to Stiles’ ears, but it was a comfort to imagine a place where werewolves could just roam free, presumably no humans within miles.  Derek could find a pack, maybe even a mate, start a family.  Of course, that was a future with no room in it for Stiles, and he was surprised at how much that thought hurt.

This was always supposed to be temporary, Stiles knew that, but Derek had become such a huge part of his life so fast, and now he dreaded to think about coming home to an empty house at night.  How had he done that before?  After his father had died, how had he survived with no one?  He’d had Danny for a while, but that had never really been enough.  There was Scott, of course, but Scott had his own growing family now, one that Stiles could never really be a part of.

After a few long moments, Stiles realized Derek had lifted his head, his nose now pressed to Stiles’ cheek.  “You’re sad,” Derek observed, his voice closer to human than Stiles had heard it all night.

“You can smell that?” Stiles asked shakily, trying hard to sound more amused than despondent.

“Yes,” Derek murmured, “but I don’t have to.”  And then there was warm-wet-rough pressure moving up Stiles’ cheek.  Derek’s tongue, licking up a tear.

Stiles was mortified, but Derek just held him close, laving away the few tears that escaped before Stiles could stop them.  Derek never asked why Stiles was sad, just whimpered softly in sympathy, so close to Stiles’ face that Stiles could feel the warmth of Derek’s breath against his ear.  Stiles was struck with the sudden, overwhelming desire to be able to sense whatever Derek smelled on that shirt, how their scents mingled together.  Would it calm Stiles the way it did Derek?

They were so close together that Stiles couldn’t tell which one of them moved first, how scenting and nuzzling turned into actual kissing, but it felt like such a natural progression that Stiles wasn’t even surprised when his lips slid against Derek’s.  They mouthed at each other clumsily for a few moments, both out of practice, before it turned into a proper kiss.  Even then, it stayed hesitant for a long time, Stiles wary of pushing Derek too far – and also of the fangs, which had appeared to be little more than pointy teeth last time Stiles had seen, but nonetheless remained a concern.

Derek wasn’t skillful, not exactly, but Stiles could tell it wasn’t his first kiss, either.  And he grew bolder, tilting his head and sliding his tongue against Stiles’ lips so sweetly that Stiles couldn’t convince himself to break away.  He wasn’t taking advantage of Derek, not with Derek gently encouraging Stiles to open his mouth, but for his own self-preservation, Stiles thought, he shouldn’t be doing this.  It wouldn’t make the ending any easier.

But when Stiles finally relented and their tongues slid against each other, he let out a helpless little moan.  Derek kissed him like he _needed_ it, and when he put his hand on Stiles’ cheek, Stiles could feel the claws retract completely until human fingertips were pressing against his face, cradling it.  Stiles would have sooner torn the heart from his chest than push Derek away.

So Stiles let himself have this, this one little thing, ignoring the heat simmering low in his belly at the feel of Derek’s mouth.  Stiles licked in deeply, but he kept his hands very still: one on Derek’s shoulder, the other on the back of his neck.  Derek did the same, never moving to touch more than Stiles’ cheek.  It kept the simmer in Stiles’ gut from boiling over, much as he wanted to sweep his hands over the broad expanse of Derek’s back, feel the muscles of his chest and arms.  But Stiles knew if he did that, he’d be lost.  Probably they both would.  And, emotions aside, Stiles couldn’t afford to forget the full moon outside the window, the effect it had on Derek’s ability to keep his wolf in check.  So it stayed slow and languid, strangely chaste considering the intimate connection of their mouths.

After a long, long time, it was Derek who pulled away, resting his head back into the crook of Stiles’ neck and breathing deeply.  Stiles’ lips felt raw and swollen, cold now without the heat of Derek’s mouth.  From what he could see through the blinds, the moon was much higher in the sky now.  Derek had a careful hand wrapped around Stiles’ side, and Stiles could feel the slight prick of the claws that had slid back out.  Derek was fighting for control again.

With slow movements – and a lot of help from Derek – Stiles shifted them around until his own back was resting against the flayed door and his legs were splayed out straight.  It promised to be a long night, but Stiles had no intention of letting Derek suffer through it alone.

Stiles dozed off and on, but he was pretty sure Derek was never able to relax enough to sleep.  He stayed curled against Stiles’ chest, breathing deeply at the junction of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, until the sun finally began to break over the horizon. 

Stiles forced himself fully awake and helped Derek up off the floor.  Derek looked dazed and groggy, but his eyes were their normal indefinable mix of green and hazel, and the fangs and claws were nowhere to be seen.  Stiles led him to the guest room, where Derek had finally begun sleeping on the actual bed.  Stiles pulled back the covers and Derek climbed in without a word.  He was asleep before Stiles had finished tucking the blankets back around him.

Stiles couldn’t help but notice that Derek still had the t-shirt clutched tightly in his left hand.

&&&

After an hour of trying and failing to fall asleep, Stiles resigned himself to getting up for the day.  But even after a long, hot shower, he still looked like shit.

He didn’t feel any better than he looked.  Maybe he should have been happy – ecstatic – that he and Derek had both made it through the full moon unscathed.  There was also the matter of the lengthy make-out session with the hottest guy Stiles had ever seen, werewolf or human.  He didn’t feel guilty, exactly, but it was hard to feel good about it, either.  While it had been had been happening, it had felt _right_ in a way that nothing else had – not in a long time, at least.  But all that warmth, all that affection and acceptance… in the cold light of day, it seemed like a cruel taste of something Stiles couldn’t have.  Something in his chest felt viciously empty, and maybe it was no different than it had been before last night, but now Stiles could _feel_ it.

Far worse, Stiles had begun to think about what Derek had said the other day.  About tagging Derek.  And if he tagged him, he might be able to keep him.  Stiles still felt sick over the idea of legally owning Derek, but he’d begun entertaining fantasies of somehow getting the Argents arrested so that it would be safe for Derek to stay.  And in order for him to stay and be safe from Services, he would have to be tagged.  After all, they didn’t know what the sanctuary was actually like, but Beacon Hills was Derek’s home, where his family had lived for generations, and he had actually asked for Stiles’ tag…

Stiles didn’t want Derek to leave.  He could admit it to himself, but even voicing the idea to Derek seemed sickeningly selfish.  How could he ask Derek to stay here, even if Kate and Gerard were out of the picture?  Derek would have to bear a mark of ownership to be able to stay around humans.  He would be allowed some degree of freedom to go out on his own if he were tagged and put in a proper alpha collar, but he would always be viewed with fear and suspicion.  Perhaps worst of all, he would never have the chance to be around his own kind – to build a pack, a family.  Up north, he might have a chance at both.

Stiles stared at the dark circles under his eyes in the mirror.  He’d managed to get dressed and waste time pretending to read until the grocery store would be open.  Getting more provisions would at least give him something to focus on for a little while.  He checked in on Derek, who was sleeping so deeply that he hadn’t moved from the position he’d fallen asleep in several hours ago.  Stiles closed his eyes and leaned against the door frame, letting all the worry and fear wash over him one more time before heading out.  It was something he’d learned a long time ago, a way to cope – give himself a moment to just fully experience the anxiety and the pain before tucking them away again and going about his life.

The weather had gotten cold enough that Stiles had to put on gloves and a hat, and it took a few false starts to get the Jeep’s engine to turn over.  The drive to the store was a short one, and not many people were there so early.

Stiles dazedly pushed his cart up and down the aisles, lack of sleep making everything seem unreal.  He found himself standing in front of the peanut butter section for minutes on end, trying to puzzle out why there needed to be so many different kinds of peanut butter. 

But what he needed was meat.  Derek was slowly adjusting to the cooked stuff, but he still ate a hell of a lot of it.  Stiles loaded up his cart with a few pork loins and T-bones, supplemented with nearly all of the supermarket’s supply of ground chuck.  Stiles hadn’t eaten so much meat since his dad – who’d been an avid griller – passed away, and he needed to go get some veggies to balance it out.  And peaches.  Couldn’t forget the peaches.

Stiles yawned so hard he managed to veer his cart sideways and ram it right into… Kate fucking Argent.  Jesus Christ.  Stiles snapped awake in an instant, hoping like hell he’d controlled the shock on his face.

“Hey, watch it!” Kate said, looking at him as though he were a garden slug.  “ _Detective_ Stilinski.”  She made it sound like an insult.

“Sorry, _ma’am_ ,” he said through gritted teeth.  Then he managed a smile, knowing the ma’am thing would piss her off.  Small victories.

He expected her to keep walking, but her eyes landed on the contents of his cart and she stopped.  “That’s a lot of meat for one guy,” she said, all but purring, and it turned Stiles’ stomach.

Fuck.  “I’m having a barbecue.”

She cocked an eyebrow.  “In November?”

Fucking _fuck_.  “I like grilling in cold weather.  It’s bracing.”

The way she smiled, Stiles was half-expecting fangs to pop out.  “I’m sure it is.  Am I invited?”

“What?”  Who the hell even asked that of someone they barely knew?

“Well, I’m assuming Scott and Allison will be coming over, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen my favorite niece.  I hear she has a new baby.”

“You should probably talk to her about that,” Stiles said, trying to maneuver his cart around her, but she just stepped closer and looked him up and down until he felt his balls shrivel.

“You’re not looking so hot, Detective,” she said with a pout, and was she flirting?  Because it was really creeping Stiles out.

“Sweet of you to notice.  It’s been a long week.”

“You look like you barely slept last night.  So tell me, is the urban legend true?  Is there more crime on the full moon?”

Oh _shit_.  Stiles had to get out of there.  Fast.  But he kept his voice as even as possible.  “Actually, it is true.  Nothing paranormal about it, though – more light means it’s easier to see what you’re doing at night.  If it’s not cloudy, property crimes go up, but only slightly.  If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get going.  Lots to do.”

“Of course,” Kate said, bumping against his side as she slithered between Stiles and the shelves to continue down the aisle.  “Enjoy all that meat,” she said over her shoulder.

Stiles forced himself to walk at a normal pace to the cash register.  The peaches were going to have to wait.  Kate obviously suspected something, but she had no proof.  For all Stiles knew, she could be suspicious of everyone in town, and even she wasn’t stupid enough to make a move without hard evidence.  Deaton had said the Argents had been doing this for a long time – they couldn’t continue to keep it a secret by going after a police officer on nothing but a hunch.

It wasn’t until Stiles had finished loading the groceries into the Jeep that he reached in his pockets and realized he only had one of his gloves.

&&&

Stiles didn’t stick the siren on the top of his Jeep on the way home, but only because it was so close.  He took deep breaths to try to make himself calm down.  He didn’t know for sure that Kate had taken the glove – it could have fallen out of his pocket.  But he didn’t want to go running back through the store and risk seeing her again, making her even more suspicious.  If the glove was just on the floor somewhere, she almost certainly wouldn’t know it was his.  But the way she’d bumped into him there at the end, like it was purposeful…

He didn’t even bother to take the groceries out of the car, just pulled into the garage, dashed inside, and ran up the steps.  He stopped dead in the doorway of the guest bedroom at the sight of Derek sleeping so peacefully, fingers curled around a pillow.  Stiles had never watched him as he slept – it seemed like too much of an imposition – but Derek was even more impossibly beautiful when he was asleep.  His face was smoothed of worry and he looked years younger, coal black eyelashes almost delicate against those sharp cheekbones.

So this was how it was going to end.  Stiles needed to talk to Derek first, of course, but he already knew what the outcome would be, really.  The simple act of waking Derek up cracked Stiles’ heart cleanly in two.

But he did it anyway, as gently as possible.  “Derek,” he said, sitting on the bed and shaking Derek’s bare shoulder.  “Derek, you need to get up.”

God, he was really deeply asleep – he just mumbled something and batted at Stiles’ hand.  He was surely still exhausted from the night before, but Stiles wouldn’t be doing him any favors by letting him sleep.  So Stiles swallowed, his throat so dry it clicked, and said, “Derek, I ran into Kate at the supermarket.  Kate Argent.”

The name had Derek awake and up instantaneously.  “Did she talk to you?”

Stiles nodded.  “I didn’t even see her coming, but she asked about all the meat I had in my cart and then mentioned the full moon last night out of nowhere.  I don’t think she got a reaction out of me, but… god, Derek, I’m so sorry, but I think she took one of my gloves.  Could… could Peter pick your scent off of that?”

Derek’s face remained blank, but his eyes hardened.  “Were they the same gloves you were wearing when you came looking for me in the woods?”

Stiles couldn’t even look at Derek, could barely manage to croak out, “Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Derek said after a long moment, his voice surprisingly quiet.  “They’ll mostly smell like you, of course, and I don’t remember touching them that much, but… it’s possible.”

Stiles wasn’t surprised, but it still made him sick to hear it.  All this time he’d tried to be so _careful_ , and now he felt like he’d betrayed Derek.  “It’s not safe for you here anymore.  We need to start driving north right now.”

A warm hand closed around Stiles’ wrist and it nearly made him jump.  “Stiles,” Derek said.  “What about your job?”

Stiles laughed humorlessly.  “I’ll call in sick tomorrow, tell them I have pneumonia or something.  Frankly, I’m more worried about my Jeep.  But if it dies on the way and I have to commandeer a fucking snow plow, I swear to god, I’ll get you up there.  _Fuck_ , this is all my fault.”

The hand on his wrist tightened slightly.  “Stiles, you didn’t have to do _any_ of this.  But you’ve kept me safe for three weeks.  You’ve given me a… a home.”

At least Derek didn’t seem to be able to meet Stiles’ eyes either, because Stiles was pretty sure he’d do something remarkably embarrassing and/or stupid if they’d been looking at each other right at that moment.  As it was, he put his other hand over Derek’s and said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll get you a bag.  Get all your stuff together.  We need to leave as soon as possible.”

All Derek owned was the stuff Stiles had bought him, and Stiles himself just threw his warmest clothes into a second duffel.  Hopefully, with enough layers – and the heat in the Jeep holding out – he could make it through Canada and up into Alaska.  Even if they only stopped to sleep for a few hours each night, the trip would still take at least three days.  And where were they going to sleep, once they left civilization?  Stiles was pretty sure there weren’t a whole lot of Holiday Inns in the Yukon.  But all those ice road truckers had to stay somewhere – fuck, now Stiles wished he’d actually watched a couple of episodes of that show – so they’d figure something out on the way.

Stiles was charging into this without a plan, something that he’d had to remind Scott over and over again was incredibly dangerous.  He should’ve started seriously thinking about it right after Deaton had told him the Argents were missing an alpha, but he’d still been so sure Deaton would be able to find other transport for Derek.  Somebody that actually knew what they were doing.

They threw their bags into the back of the Jeep, and Stiles pulled all the nonperishables from the grocery bags, dumping everything else in the trashcan in the garage.  They’d find a gas station someplace far out of town and stock up on travel-ready food there.

“Stay down, just until we’re out of the neighborhood,” Stiles said as he backed out of the garage.  “I think we’ve managed to keep anyone from realizing I’ve got someone else staying in the house, but I don’t want to chance anyone seeing you.”

Derek glared at him like slouching down in his seat was a terrible affront to his dignity, but he did it without any protest.  Fortunately, though, Stiles didn’t see anyone he knew, and after a few minutes, he told Derek he could sit up again.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Stiles said, because he’d had to come up with something, at least to get them started.  “We take back roads until we get near the county line so nobody sees me roaring through town.  We drive until I need gas, then we stop and pray that wherever we end up is anachronistic enough to have a pay phone.  Which reminds me…”  Stiles slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and switched it off in case anybody got the bright idea to track the GPS chip.  Driving an old blue Jeep was distinctive enough to cause trouble, since everyone in town knew exactly who it belonged to.

“I’ll call Deaton,” Stiles continued, “and find out the exact location of the sanctuary.”

“You don’t know?” Derek asked in disbelief.

“Deaton doesn’t even know.  It’s supposed to be a security measure, to keep everyone in the chain as safe as possible.  But he’ll know who does know, and I’ll contact whoever that is.  Since the, uh, transport problem is taken care of, Deaton can vouch for me and I’ll get the location.”

“What if you can’t?”

“Hey, _detective_ , remember?  Getting information out of people is my job.  Not gonna lie, the pretty face helps, but I can be just as persuasive over the phone.”

Derek’s lips didn’t even twitch at that, but Stiles could hardly blame him.  “So,” Derek said softly.  “If you don’t even know where this place is, I guess you don’t know anything else about it.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Stiles said, wishing he had a better answer.  “If Deaton says it’s safe, I know it’s safe, but I don’t know if it’s mostly just woods, or if it’s more like a… community.  There will be plenty of other werewolves there, though.  You can start building a pack.  A family.”

Stiles shot a quick glance at Derek, who didn’t look particularly encouraged by any of this.  “But hey,” Stiles said, making his voice light, “if you hate it, you don’t have to stay.  You’ll be off the Argents’ radar.  You could find some woods between here and there.  Hell, maybe I’ll stay with you.  Find myself a little cabin near a little town with a suspiciously high murder rate and start a private detective agency.  I’ve always thought ‘Stilinski, P.I.’ had a good ring to it.  Not like I’ve got all that much to come back to.”

Stiles had meant it as a joke, but the words came out with a tinge of bitterness he didn’t expect.

“You have friends,” Derek said softly.  “You have a home.”

“I have a house and co-workers,” Stiles spat out, coming to a stop at a red light even though the intersection was clear.  He didn’t think anyone was around to see him run the light, but he didn’t want to risk drawing any unnecessary attention.  “And I guess I have Scott, but he’s got his own family now.  I’m okay with things, I am.  I like my job and the people I work with, but I’m not kidding myself – if I just… left… there wouldn’t exactly be wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” Derek said under his breath, almost as though he didn’t mean for Stiles to hear.

The light turned green and the road ahead was clear, so Stiles chanced a quick look over at Derek as he pulled into the intersection.  Which was the only reason he saw the black SUV hurtling toward them before it rammed into the passenger side of the Jeep and everything went dark.

&&&

Stiles slowly floated back to consciousness in a room full of beeping machines and tubes and Scott.  Scott?

“Dude, you’re awake!”

Scott.

Stiles’ first two attempts at making words were sabotaged by a painfully dry mouth and a pounding head and what he suspected were an awful lot of drugs, because Scott seemed to change position significantly every time Stiles’ blinked, like each blink was several seconds long.  But he kept his eyes open long enough to see Scott standing there with a cup and a straw, raising the back of the bed until Stiles was sitting up enough to drink.  He suspected he was trying to guzzle the cold, clean, _delicious_ water too fast, because Scott pulled the cup away.

“Slow down, you’ll make yourself sick.”

The very idea of Scott playing nurse struck him as hilarious, so even though he couldn’t quite laugh, Stiles figured he hadn’t sustained too much brain damage.  After what he hoped was a reasonable amount of time, he made grabby hands at the water until Scott relented.

As he tried to pull his thoughts together, Stiles took a mental inventory of his body.  The throbbing in his head wasn’t overpowering, but his thoughts were fuzzy enough that he figured there was a significant amount of pain medicine holding back the worst of it.  There was a cast around his left wrist, though thankfully his fingers were free.  And when he reached out for the water, the rest of his body twinged enough to let him know that he was probably bruised all to hell, like he’d been hit by a truck.

Fuck it all, he’d been hit by a truck.

“What happened?” he finally managed to croak out.

“Hit and run,” Scott said, dragging his chair up to sit right beside Stiles’ bed.  “You were t-boned by something big out on County Route 7.  What were you even doing out—?  No, never mind, that doesn’t matter.”

“How bad?”

“You?  Concussion, broken wrist, some severe contusions and a few cuts from the broken glass.  Your Jeep, though…  I’m so sorry, man.  She’s gone.  Went to the big garage in the sky.  Actually, it’s sort of a miracle you weren’t hurt a lot worse, even though the other car hit the passenger side.”

Stiles groaned – his _Jeep_.  His baby.  Though through the medicated fog, Stiles felt like there was something else even more important that he was forgetting.  He closed his eyes, saw the big black car coming at him like it was slow motion.  Derek reacted fast, though.  Before the truck had even hit, Derek was clawing through his seat belt, reaching for Stiles.  Derek was…

 _Derek_.

The sudden shot of adrenaline was enough to clear the fog in Stiles’ brain, though it also had the regrettable effect of sending a searing pain through his skull.  “Was there someone else in the car with me?” Stiles asked frantically.  “Did they find anyone else?”

Scott was looking at him suspiciously, but Stiles figured Scott was chalking the questions up to the concussion until Scott said, “No.  There was no one else.  But there was a lot of blood.  Much, much more than could have come from your injuries.  And the passenger seat belt had been sliced clean through, like with a knife.  But there was no blood trail leading away from the car, which there should have been if someone else had been in the passenger seat and actually managed to crawl away.  So they’re not out looking for anyone else.  But you tell me, Stiles: was there someone else in the car?”

Luckily, Scott sounded more confused than accusatory, so Stiles had a few seconds to think.  Of course there wouldn’t be a blood trail if Derek had had time to heal.  But there was no way the Argents would have ambushed them like that and let Derek escape.  If he’d been well enough to struggle before the Argents took him, any evidence was probably masked by the wreckage of the car.  Assuming – _oh god_ – assuming they took him alive.

“How much blood was there?” Stiles asked, able to hear his own heart rate shoot up on the monitor.  “Just more than there should have been, or more than someone could lose and still survive?”

“Enough that there’s probably going to be an investigation.  They’re going to want to question you.”  Scott’s face was sterner than Stiles had ever seen it… and then it collapsed back into tired concern, as if Scott was incapable of being suspicious of Stiles for very long.  “But off the record?  Nobody bled to death in your passenger seat.  Stiles, what the hell is going on?”

“Off the record?” Stiles repeated.  He didn’t have any reason to mistrust Scott, but he still felt immensely relieved when Scott nodded.  “I’ll tell you everything, I promise.  But not here.”

Stiles wasn’t worried for his own life at the moment – if the Argents had wanted him dead, he’d be dead three times over by now – but he still couldn’t talk about it in public.  And he needed to move fast, which was going to be difficult with his injuries, but not impossible.  A plan was already starting to take shape in his head, but he was still going to need help.

“And there’s something I need you to look up for me while I convince the doctors to let me out of here,” Stiles said, before taking as deep a breath as his bruised chest would allow.  “And then I need you to take me back to your house.  I need to see Allison.”

&&&

Scott had finally gotten the baby to stop crying and go to sleep, which did more to relieve Stiles’ blinding headache than the frankly unimpressive pills they’d sent him home with.  Technically speaking, he should still be in the hospital, but his attending physician had been a none-too-friendly former high school classmate, and Dr. Whittemore didn’t want Stiles hanging around any more than Stiles wanted to stay in the hospital.  So Stiles was let go after signing something that ensured he wouldn’t sue the hospital if he suddenly dropped dead.

Scott had gotten the information Stiles needed and returned to pick Stiles up.  Scott had seemed reluctant to involve Allison in something Stiles refused to explain (mostly because he didn’t have the time or the patience to go through it all twice), but he had brought Stiles back to the house anyway.

It was Stiles’ last-ditch plan and he really, really hated to involve Allison – or Scott – in the danger of any of this, but he couldn’t think of another way.  So once the baby was asleep and the three of them could sit down in the living room, Stiles turned to Allison and asked, “How well do you know your aunt and grandfather?”

The conversation was all downhill from there.

Stiles explained everything Derek had told him as coherently as he could, and though Allison didn’t get angry (which she was perfectly capable of doing – Stiles had criticized her cooking once… and only once), she kept shaking her head with disbelief.

“Admittedly, I don’t know them all that well,” Allison said, sounding exactly like she was treading carefully around the delusions of a man with a recent head injury.  “I haven’t seen my grandfather since I was twelve, and I only see Aunt Kate about once a year, but what you’re saying…”

“Is horrific, I know,” Stiles said sympathetically.  It was obvious that Allison was aware of none of it.  “And believe me, I wouldn’t charge in here like this and make accusations if I wasn’t absolutely sure.”

Allison shook her head again.  “The Argents used to hunt wers, but that was generations ago, back when it was still legal.  My dad told me.  And he doesn’t know a long bow from a compound bow.”

“I know,” Stiles said quickly, pushing any disgust he felt for Chris away.  “Your father refused to do it.  He turned Gerard down.  I think that’s probably why you haven’t seen your grandfather for so long.”

“They don’t get along, I know that.  But my dad is a good man.  We always treated our wers well – everybody knows that.  If my dad knew what my grandfather was doing…”

“He’d what?” Stiles asked, trying hard not to lose his patience, since he knew dumping all of this on Allison at once was unfair and painful.  “He’d turn his father in for multiple murders?  If I was in his position, if my dad were still alive, I don’t think I could do it.  I think I’d do everything in my power to protect him.”

“But you’d also try to _stop_ him,” Allison insisted.  “So would my dad.  Our wers are like family to us.”

“To you.  Maybe to your dad.  Not to Gerard.  I’ve heard – and not just from Derek, but from people that try to protect werewolves – that he’s an incredibly dangerous man.  That he taught Kate to be the same way.”

“I’m sorry,” Allison said.  “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t believe my family has anything to do with it.”

Stiles had been prepared for that.  “How much property does your grandfather own?”

Allison looked stunned by the sudden shift in topic.  “I… I don’t know.  There’s the main house, which I only ever visited a handful of times when I was a kid.  And at least a few dozen acres extending into the woods.”

“If you wanted – hypothetically – to let werewolves loose in those woods to hunt, but you had to be sure they wouldn’t escape, what would you do?”

“I don’t know, mountain ash?” Allison said, looking even more confused.  “But you’d need the right person to lay the perimeter and it could get worn away by the weather, so you’d have to keep maintaining it.  What does this have to do with anything?”

Stiles didn’t let up.  “So if mountain ash wasn’t practical, what else?”

“Well, you obviously couldn’t use a regular fence, even with concrete or razor wire.  The wers would be strong enough to go over or right through it.  You’d need something that would weaken them first, sap their strength, keep them from healing.  So… an electrified fence, I guess?”

Beside her, Scott went pale.  “Stiles…”

But Stiles kept his focus on Allison.  “Before we got here, I asked Scott to look something up for me.  I didn’t tell him why or what exactly I was looking for.  Scott, have you told me what you found?”

“No, but—”

“Then tell both of us right now.”

Scott gulped audibly as he took a folded printout from his pocket.  “Allison, Stiles asked me to check electricity usage within the city limits.  And your grandfather’s estate… it’s pulling _huge_ amounts of power.  Like, ten times what even a house that big would need.  Not just that – there are spikes in the usage every four weeks, like clockwork.”

Allison grabbed the printout from him, face twisted with horror.  She looked it over.  “Every full moon.”  She looked up at Stiles, her eyes huge, and in the midst of everything, Stiles felt for her.  Everything she thought she knew about her family had just been turned upside down.  “This doesn’t prove my father knows about any of this,” she said defensively.

“I’m not interested in your father,” Stiles said as calmly as he could.  “I just need to find a way into Gerard’s estate.”

Scott put his arm around Allison’s shoulders.  “Stiles, if everything you’ve said about Gerard and Kate is true… I know you don’t want to think about it, but Derek’s probably already dead.”

Stiles shook his head firmly.  “I don’t think so.  And it’s not just a gut feeling.  They left him for last.  Peter, Derek’s uncle, he’s crazy but he’s not stupid.  Derek told me alphas are stronger when they have pack members.  After Laura became the alpha, Peter would’ve wanted to take Derek out first.  That would also guarantee it didn’t somehow pass on to Derek and force Peter to fight _another_ alpha for the title.  But Kate and Gerard didn’t let that happen, and I don’t think it was coincidence.  They left Derek for last and there has to be a reason.  There’s even a chance they may not have wanted him dead in the first place.”

Stiles had his own speculations as to why that was, but he didn’t share.  Scott and Allison were already looking at him like he was deeply in denial, and hell, maybe he was.  “But even if Derek’s… dead,” Stiles continued, “they’ll probably still have his body.  They can’t just dump it in the woods like the others.  So I have to get in there before they find a way to… to dispose of him.”

Scott shook his head.  “Anything you find without a warrant—”

“I’m not going in there as a cop, Scott.”  Stiles could tell Scott was dying to ask exactly in what capacity Stiles _was_ charging into the house of a pair of psychopaths, but to his credit, he didn’t.

Instead, Scott said, “I don’t want Allison involved in this.”

And, really, even Stiles could have predicted the glare Allison shot at him.  “ _I’ll_ decide whether I want to get involved in this,” she said firmly.

“But… our daughter—” Scott protested.

“Apparently has a psychotic great-grandfather,” Allison snapped.

“I’m not asking either of you to come with me,” Stiles said.  “I just need a way in.”

“And a way out,” Allison said sharply.  Then her tone softened.  “Stiles, I know you wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t urgent, but you’re risking your entire career for this, and what I don’t understand is… why?”

Actually, Stiles was pretty certain he was risking his life once he got inside the estate – the car crash had been both a kidnapping and a warning, and Stiles wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d get another one.  But if Allison wasn’t ready to accept the fact that her relatives probably wouldn’t make much distinction between killing werewolves and humans when it came to keeping their secrets, well, Stiles had dumped enough horror on her today.

But the question remained, and Stiles wasn’t sure he could fully answer it himself.  All he knew was that it wasn’t optional; all he’d thought about since waking up in that hospital bed was finding Derek.  “Because… because I promised I’d never let him go back there.  He trusted me to keep him safe, and I didn’t.  I owe it to him to keep trying.”

Neither Scott nor Allison looked convinced, so Stiles kept going.  “Look, my injuries from the car accident should have been much, much worse, right?  Well, Derek has enhanced reflexes.  The last thing I remember is him reaching for me.  He probably saved my life.”

Even that didn’t feel like the full answer, and Allison looked like she knew it.  But she just squeezed Scott’s hand and said, “Tell me what you need me to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: themes of slavery, references to underage sexual trauma and (nongraphic) torture, canon-typical violence, minor character death

Their greatest resource turned out to be Google Earth.  Stiles had gone to Allison hoping she knew more about the estate, but even though she hadn’t been there in something like 13 years, she drew up a rough sketch of what she remembered and they compared it to the satellite image of the main house.  There had been some expansions, but at least Stiles had some idea what the inside layout looked like.

“I think the stairs leading down into the basement were here,” Allison said, pointing to a small room behind the kitchen.  “I remember they wouldn’t let me go down there to play.  They said it was the ‘servants’ quarters.’”  She sounded a little sick.

Stiles figured there had to be some kind of tunnel leading from the basement out to the woodlands behind the house.  It was unlikely the Argents would march their prey up through the house and out the back door.  Maybe there actually were servants’ quarters downstairs – it sounded like Derek had thought he’d been living a somewhat normal life for a while – but the electricity spikes meant something bad was happening down there, too.

They all sat around the computer, zooming in on the overhead view of the house until the image started to lose resolution.  “Could that be the breaker box for the fence?” Scott asked, pointing to a fuzzy gray shape at the side of the house near the back.  “It would have to be big and probably on a separate grid from the rest of the house.”

“Yeah, but right out in the open like that?” Stiles mused.

“Probably,” Allison said.  “They wouldn’t have it in the house, and they’d have to keep it outside the perimeter of the fence.  They’re concerned about things getting _out_ , not in.”

Stiles’ hackles rose at Allison’s use of the word “things,” though she probably hadn’t meant anything by it.  Despite her lack of specific knowledge about the estate, she was proving to be a formidable tactician – when she wasn’t feeding the baby.  All other baby-related activities had been outsourced to Scott.  But even with the interruptions, they formed a plan.

Perhaps even calling it a “plan” was overly generous, but Stiles’ highest priority was getting in (and out) as soon as possible.  When Stiles broke in, Scott would be waiting for him a few blocks over, ready to drive them straight to Stiles’ SUV (the thing cost a fucking fortune to rent, but he wasn’t taking any chances this time on a dependable vehicle).  Once Derek was out of the estate, the Argents had no legal claim to him, and Stiles would get him north immediately, with Scott giving him a police escort in a marked squad car until they crossed state lines.

It was still dangerous, but it gave them a chance of getting out of the Argents’ reach.  Stiles was angry at himself for not asking for Scott’s help earlier.  He should have known that Scott would be willing to help him with something this important.  And Stiles had greatly underestimated Allison.  She might have been an Argent, but once she found out what her grandfather and aunt were doing, she was nearly as determined as Stiles to stop it.  Stiles would need both of them to help deal with the fallout after he got Derek to safety.  With Allison’s help, they could probably get a warrant and have the entire police force combing the house in a few days, but Stiles wasn’t willing to leave Derek in there while they waited on a judge’s decision.

So, with a half-assed plan and just enough painkillers to keep him mobile, Stiles found himself crouched by the breaker box outside the Argent estate in the middle of the night, hoping the wiring wouldn’t be too complex.  Lucky for him, it wasn’t – sections of the fence were on separate circuits so that if one section went out, the whole thing wouldn’t go down, and everything was clearly labeled.  Praying that the section labeled #1 was the closest to the breaker box and the side of the house, Stiles pulled the fuse and pocketed it. 

He wasn’t bothering to cover his tracks – if either of the Argents figured out something was wrong with the fence before Stiles could get Derek out, they’d immediately suspect foul play, and therefore Stiles.  He was sure they’d know he was out of the hospital by now, but he hoped they wouldn’t be on high alert because they would think he wasn’t stupid enough to try to break in.

And it sure as hell felt stupid as Stiles was trying to ease himself over the top of the temporarily dead fence.  His head and ribs ached and his wrist was screaming with pain, but he hadn’t dared take anything that would make his brain fuzzy.  And his legs were just fine, which Stiles was pretty sure would be his saving grace.  Once he was back on the ground – and no alarms were going off – he headed to a set of doors that, from above, had looked like a storm cellar.  As if there was a reason to have an underground storm shelter in northern California.

The doors were reinforced steel with a complicated lock – it was a damn good thing that Stiles was so handy with his lockpick kit, even with one arm in a cast.  Kicking down doors had never been his style, anyway.  It was actually harder to yank the doors open, heavy as they were, and Stiles worried he was doing permanent damage to his wrist.

He hated to have to leave the door open, but at least it couldn’t be seen from any of the house’s windows, and it would make for an easier exit.  As Stiles descended into the tunnel, the cloud-covered moonlight soon faded to nothing and Stiles had to bring out his flashlight.

At first he thought the walls of the tunnel were carved with some kind of pattern, until he realized that the deep gouges were claw marks.  This house had belonged to the Argents for generations – how many werewolves had been forced through here, knowing they were headed to their deaths?  Stiles wondered if the stench of terror still lingered in the walls, if a werewolf nose could smell it, because just looking at the walls made Stiles feel it.  He had to fight to keep his breathing under control.

There was another locked door at the end of the tunnel, but this one was easier to pick and open.  It led to a long, dimly lit hallway with multiple doors down each side.  Some of the doors were closed, but they didn’t look like they could be locked.  Some of the doors were open, though, and what Stiles could see…

This probably had once been something that could legitimately have been called “servants’ quarters,” albeit without windows or much access to the outside.  There were beds, tables, chairs – all the normal furnishings – but they had fallen into serious disrepair.  Whole families appeared to be crammed into single rooms, beds with bare mattresses shoved together and dirty sheets hung as partitions to maintain some sense of privacy.  The air was dank and the ceiling mildewed.  And everything, _everything_ stank.

How long had this place been left to deteriorate?  Just since Derek escaped, or longer than that?  If it was all Derek knew, he might not have noticed a slow decline in living conditions, which Stiles was guessing dropped precipitously after he escaped.  Beacon Hills didn’t have a ghetto, but Stiles knew one when he saw it.  These werewolves, these _people_ , were living in subhuman conditions.

Just as Stiles had expected, a few wolves heard him come in and crept out into the hall, teeth bared.  But Stiles was ready and held out a white pillowcase – the one Derek had been sleeping on for weeks.  Stiles had no idea if these werewolves would recognize the scent, if they had even been here when the Hale family was still alive or if they’d been brought in as replacements after Derek escaped.  Stiles was aware he was barging into a den of werewolves smelling like a foreign alpha, and he had no idea whether that would protect him or be perceived as a threat.

He also noticed that, even though at least a few of the wolves had seen the door he’d come from and that he’d left it unlocked, no one was even making a move toward it.  That was when Stiles realized that the collars they were all wearing weren’t the standard beta collars – they were shock collars.  Stiles didn’t know how far back the sensors were, but he figured that telling them which section of the fence was dead wouldn’t do them a damn bit of good.  Apparently, the Argents weren’t taking any more chances.

The werewolves were getting closer, obviously wary of Stiles but not intimidated by him, either.  Stiles hoped to god that with all the other wretched odors around they couldn’t smell the wolfsbane-laced bullets in his gun.  Scott had gotten them from the special reserves at the station, and while they were intended only for Peter, should that eventuality arise, Stiles knew he had little chance of convincing these werewolves of that.

“I know the Hale family used to live here,” he said quietly, knowing he’d be heard even over the low, rumbling growls of the wolves.  “And I know Derek escaped and he’s still—”  No, Stiles didn’t know whether Derek was still _anything_.  “I’m… I’m a friend of his, and I know that if he’s here and he’s still alive, he’s in danger.  Please, if anybody knows where he is…”

The growls increased in volume and Stiles tried hard to slow his heartbeat.  He wanted the wolves to know he was telling the truth, and he knew he wouldn’t pass a polygraph with his heart rate skyrocketing.  The wolves were now blocking his path down the hallway.  Stiles didn’t know the extent of their healing abilities, but he’d never seen werewolves that looked so sickly.  Every one of them was sallow-featured and bony, but Stiles had no illusions about how quickly they could rip his head off.  They were close enough now that Stiles wouldn’t have had time to reach for his gun even if he’d wanted to.

Then, with no cue Stiles could see or hear, the growling stopped all at once.  The two wolves in front of him glanced back and parted, and an older woman with graying hair stepped forward.  Stiles didn’t even need to see the alpha shock collar around her neck, because her eyes were glowing red.  She looked like the librarian at Stiles’ old high school – if the librarian could tear him in half.  Stiles dropped his eyes so as not to look like he was issuing a challenge, but he kept his back straight and his feet planted to show he had no intention of slinking off, either.

“You’ve got to be some kind of stupid, boy, walking in here, not only waving another alpha’s scent, but an alpha that’s been hunted by the Argents.”

 _Been_ hunted?  Past tense?  Did that mean Derek was dead?

“Dangerously stupid, ma’am,” he agreed.  “But I have to find Derek.  And if I do, if I can get him out of here, then I can get a warrant for the whole estate.  I’m a cop, and I have friends who want to help you.  Now that I know where to look, we can raid this whole place in a matter of days.”

Stiles didn’t say that it was only a possibility relying on a number of factors, the first of which was that Stiles got out of here in one piece.  But he hazarded a glance up at the alpha, who was staring at him like she could see right under his skin.  “Then I suppose it’s in our best interests to keep you alive.  The Hale boy is in one of the holding cells.” She gestured behind her to the far end of the hallway.  “They brought him in alive.  But I can’t tell you what kind of condition he’s in now.”

Holding cells.  Jesus.  “Thank you.  Thank you so much,” he said, dipping his head in obeisance.

The alpha snorted, but she sounded almost fond when she said, “Try not to get yourself killed.”

Excellent.

Once he’d passed the alpha, he had to stop himself from flat-out running down the corridor as fast as he could.  There was no door at the end, but there were prominently-placed sensors held to the wall by thick silver bolts – the perimeter for the shock collars, no doubt.

The corridor took an L-bend, and at the end of that, Stiles could see a more normal-looking door that probably led upstairs into the house.  But lining this hallway were several thick metal doors – almost certainly silver alloy, too.  They were heavy, but they weren’t locked, and Stiles only had to open two before he found Derek.

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat, which may have been the only thing keeping down his dinner.  Half a dozen hot, blazing lights were pointed directly at Derek, who was strung up by his wrists so that his feet weren’t touching the floor.  There was a crude, dirty-looking gag crammed in his mouth and he was shirtless, so Stiles could see that he was… injured.

There were fist-sized bruises all down his ribs, along with long, thin lacerations like he’d been –oh god – _whipped_.  One of his shoulders was obviously dislocated and it made Stiles sick to even look at it.  Why wasn’t Derek healing?

Stiles took two steps forward before Derek’s head snapped up.  He looked like he couldn’t focus on Stiles’ face – those lights would blind anyone, even without hypersensitive vision – and he reacted with pure fear, jerking in his bonds.

“It’s okay, it’s me,” Stiles said.  “It’s Stiles, I’m here.”  He tried to get closer to Derek, but Derek’s eyes went wide and he shook his head.

“What?” Stiles asked, and Derek nodded over to a control panel on the left wall.  Stiles looked – meters for voltage, amperage.  Christ, they were putting enough current through Derek to light up a house.  Stiles cranked down the dials and heard an immediate whimper of relief.  When he was sure everything was off, he ran to Derek and pulled the filthy gag out of his mouth.

“Red button,” Derek gasped.  “On that same panel.  _Please_.”

It wasn’t what Stiles was expecting him to say, but when Stiles hit the button, Derek practically sobbed, “High-frequency pitch.  You can’t hear it, but I could hardly hear anything else.”

There was a chair to the side of the room, and Stiles quickly pulled it over so Derek could have something to stand on.  Luckily, his strength seemed to be returning, because he popped his shoulder back into joint – Stiles hissed in pain along with him – and, with some struggle, snapped the restraints and wires that were binding him. 

But once he stepped down from the chair, his initial surge of strength waned and he crumpled, Stiles doing his best to catch him but ending up in a heap on the floor with him.  Derek was starting to heal, but slowly.  The electricity plus the silver collar – the same one he’d had before; apparently the Argents hadn’t bothered with a shock collar – had left nasty burns all around Derek’s neck, but the skin was beginning to regenerate.

Stiles held Derek up the best he could, supporting Derek’s chest with Stiles’ arms looped under Derek’s, but even sitting on the floor, it was difficult.  So Stiles just… held him, pulled him close and waited for him to recover enough to move, praying it would be soon.  He couldn’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to Derek’s shoulder and murmuring quiet reassurances against his skin.

Soon enough, though, Derek was able to raise his head, and Stiles let out a sigh of relief to see that Derek’s eyes looked clear and focused, if crinkled with pain – he probably wasn’t drugged.  “Are you okay?” Stiles asked.

He got a very cynical eyebrow in response.

“Okay, stupid question.  But can you walk?”

Derek winced as he tried to stretch his limbs.  “In a minute. I think one of my legs was broken.  The electricity kept me from healing.”  Then he looked at Stiles like he was suddenly seeing him for the first time.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Now who’s asking stupid questions?”  And then Stiles kissed him hard on the mouth, because he was _alive_ and healing and well enough to kiss back for just a second before pushing Stiles away.

“Stiles,” Derek hissed.  “There’s no way we can just walk out of here.”

“I came in through the back,” Stiles said flippantly, hoping Derek couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart, because no, it wasn’t going to be that easy.  It never was.  Stiles was mostly just hoping for “survivable.”  “But if anything goes wrong, you have to let me take care of Kate and Gerard.”

“You think they won’t try to kill you?” Derek asked incredulously.

“Oh, no, I’m pretty much counting on it.  But even if we both get out of here alive, if you’ve harmed a human, I won’t be able to protect you from Services.”  Derek didn’t look persuaded.  “ _Promise_ me.”

“Fine.  As long as I get Peter.”

“I’m really hoping it won’t come down to that.”

“Come down to what?” came a female voice from behind Stiles.  _Motherfucker_.  “This?”

The intensity of the lights meant Stiles couldn’t see more than the vague shape of the figure in the doorway, but the voice was Kate’s.  Stiles was up in a second, reaching for his gun when Kate stepped through the lights and Stiles could see the crossbow pointed at his heart.  Behind him, Derek got to his feet and growled, but Stiles kept himself between them.  Kate was less likely to kill him.  Probably.

“Take the gun out of your holster, _Detective_ , and kick it over here,” Kate said, her tone almost playful.  “My father wasn’t convinced you’d try to break in here.  He thought you’d be smart enough to heed the warning we gave you.  Good thing I knew better.”

“Silent alarm system?” Stiles asked as he kicked his gun into the corner of the room.  He’d known that was a possibility, but since he’d had no way of knowing where the sensors were or how to disable it – and there wasn’t exactly time to do recon – he’d just chanced it.

Kate shrugged.  “I have to say, it’s the first time we’ve had someone try to break _in_.”

“Kate,” he said softly, “there are other officers who know where I am.  And there’s nothing definitive to link Derek back to you.  If you just let us go—”

“Wow, you’re stupider than I thought,” Kate said with a laugh.  “But I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised, not when this one’s involved.”  She nodded back at Derek with a wicked smirk.  “He’s _good_ , isn’t he?”

“Excuse me?” Stiles said, hoping she wasn’t confirming his suspicions about why she’d kept Derek for last.  Why she hadn’t killed him yet.

She was.  “I don’t know how well he sucks cock, but if it’s anything like the way he eats pussy, no wonder you came running back in here.  And he fucks like a jackhammer.  God, I’ve missed that.”  She must have mistaken Stiles’ disgust for shock, or maybe she just liked the sound of her own voice.  “They’re better when you start them young.  Or didn’t he tell you?  That the whole time we were picking off his family he was too busy fucking me to notice.  And telling me how much he loved me.”

Stiles shot a hand back behind him to calm the growling, swallowing hard to force down the urge to take a lunge at Kate.  But the longer he kept her talking, the longer he had to try to figure a way out.  “How old was he when you started, you sick bitch?  How old were you?”

She just licked her lips.  “He was old enough to know what to do, though I had to teach him how to do it.  So really, you ought to be thanking _me_ for how good he gives it.”

Fuck, she really was sick.  “Shame you showed up,” she continued.  “I was going to keep him around for a little while, see if I couldn’t eventually persuade him to have some more fun.  Turns out even the nastiest ones can become docile if you break them hard enough – found that out with dear Uncle Peter.  But now that you’ve gone and caused trouble, I’ll have to kill you both.”

Stiles nodded to the single quarrel notched in her crossbow.  His gun was on the floor several feet to her right, out of easy range.  “You’ve only got time to get off one shot.  Which one of us is it going to be?  Because I guarantee you, the other one’s going to take you down.”

She laughed again.  “I didn’t say I was going to do it here.  Besides, I really ought to let Derek have a little family reunion first.  Let’s go.”

Stiles seriously considered rushing her anyway and trying to draw the shot to a nonlethal place, but even if Stiles was merely injured in the attempt, Derek was still weak enough that he had to lean on Stiles for support when they moved – it was extremely unlikely either one of them would manage to successfully escape.  Kate ushered them down the hallway and up the stairs.  She’d come down alone, armed with a single crossbow, which probably meant Gerard really didn’t believe her that Stiles was a threat.  And since they weren’t dead yet – Kate hadn’t even tried to pick up Stiles’ gun as they left the holding cell – that meant Gerard was calling the shots.  Stiles didn’t hold out any hope of convincing him to let them go, but at least he knew the chain of command.  They wouldn’t be killed until Gerard gave the order.

The stairs were narrow enough that Stiles and Derek could just barely limp up them side by side.  Kate kept the tip of the arrow pointed at Derek’s back.  The way he hissed whenever she poked him, Stiles figured it had to be coated in wolfsbane.  Surely every weapon in this place was.

There was a man waiting for them at the top of the stairs.  It couldn’t be Gerard – this man was probably in his thirties, but he looked older, wearier.  And he was wearing a shock collar, though it looked to be more elaborate than the ones on the wolves downstairs.  When they emerged into the light, the man stepped forward.  “Derek.”

“Back off, Peter, you’ll get your chance,” Kate snarled, and Peter twitched in pain.  So, a remotely-triggered shock collar, and Kate had the remote.  Peter backed off submissively.

Stiles had to position himself between Derek and Peter, who glanced back up now that Kate’s attention was no longer focused on him.  Whatever Peter had been put through for letting Derek escape – and Stiles felt like he’d seen but a small preview down in the holding cell – his eyes flashed ice-blue and he managed a cold smirk at Derek, who growled as though he’d like nothing more than to tear out Peter’s throat.  And quite frankly, Stiles didn’t have a problem with that, but now was definitely not the time.

Not with what had to be Gerard standing in the living room, flanked on either side by werewolf bodyguards in collars identical to Peter’s.  Stiles had the brief thought that if he were Allison, he’d never suspect that this innocuous-looking old man was a hunter.  Kate… well, she’d always seemed a little off-kilter, but Gerard projected the very image of a friendly grandpa.  Until he smiled.  Even though it was Kate with the crossbow, Stiles immediately knew that Gerard was the one to fear.  The gun tucked in his belt wasn’t a comforting sight either.

“Ah, Detective Stilinski, so good of you to drop by.  I’d rather you’d used the front door, but that wouldn’t have suited the purpose of your visit, would it?  Come here.”

Stiles was loath to leave Derek’s side, but Kate shoved Stiles forward and he had to let go of Derek to keep them both from toppling over.  He chanced a quick look at Derek, pleading with his eyes to _stay calm, please just stay calm_.  Derek’s murderous scowl didn’t waver, but some of the tension went out of his shoulders.

Stiles stepped out to face Gerard, trying not to show how much pain he was in.  Helping Derek up the stairs had made every one of his injuries flare back to life, but he wasn’t about to show any weakness in front of Gerard.

The older man took a long, evaluating look at Stiles, and it was all Stiles could do not to shiver in disgust.  “You look like your father,” Gerard said, “but you’ve got your mother’s spirit.  That bitch caused people like us quite a bit of trouble in her time.  Good thing the cancer took care of that.”

It was painfully obvious what Gerard was trying to do, but it was backfiring.  Instead of pissing him off, the reminder of Stiles’ mother just strengthened his resolve.  She’d probably flick his ear for running in here with such a pathetic excuse for a plan, but she’d be proud of him for trying.

“I admit I’m surprised to see you,” Gerard continued.  “Though my daughter was quite certain you’d make an appearance.  I have no problem admitting I was wrong.  But I have to know, what is it about that particular _creature_ ” – he nodded toward Derek – “that’s so exceptional?  Yes, he’s a fine physical specimen and he provided a bit of amusement for my daughter, but he’s just like all the others.  Brutal, remorseless.  He killed his own sister, did you know that?  Slashed her throat to become an alpha and save his own worthless hide.”

“He killed her because she asked him to, and because she was already dying from one of _your_ arrows,” Stiles said as calmly as he could.  “It was an act of mercy.”

“Is that what he told you?” Gerard asked with a smirk.

“Yes.  And don’t try to tell me he lied.”

Gerard shrugged.  “Very well.  If I could have convinced you that he’s the soulless killing machine that he actually is, I might have let you live.  And him, since Kate’s still convinced he can become… pliable.  But obviously you’re both too much of a liability.”

“You’re really going to kill a cop?  You can’t just dump my body in the woods like you do the others.”

“I won’t need to.  You see, I’m not killing a police officer.  I’m killing an unidentified man who broke into my house.  Armed, I assume?”

“His gun’s in the cellar,” Kate answered.

“Excellent.  Perhaps you even fired at me first.  Who’s to say?”

“There will be an investigation.  You’ll have cops crawling over every inch of this house—”

Gerard cut him off with a laugh.  “You think the police haven’t been here before?  Even if they knew what they were looking for, they wouldn’t know where to look.”

 _They do now_ , Stiles thought, but he kept his mouth shut.  He thought of Scott less than half a mile away.  He’d hear the gunshots and call for backup, and half the force would be here before Gerard would have a chance to get rid of Stiles’ and Derek’s bodies.  Even if the Argents tried to close everything up, Scott would find the passageway to the cellar… as long as he waited for the cavalry to get here.

Problem was, that was extremely unlikely.  With his partner and best friend in trouble, Scott would almost certainly charge in at the first sign of gunfire – hell, if their positions were reversed, Stiles would probably do the same.  Gerard wouldn’t have any compunctions about instructing one of his bodyguards to tear Scott apart and then claiming the werewolf had gone feral.  Their hunting operation might still get taken down with Allison’s help, but Stiles wasn’t about to make her a widow.  Stiles should have made it clearer to Scott exactly how bloodthirsty Kate and Gerard were.

As if to make Stiles’ mental point, Gerard looked around the living room and sighed.  “But let’s not do it here.  The blood will never come out of the floorboards.  I’m sure you understand, Detective.”

Gerard snapped his fingers and one of his bodyguards took Stiles by the back of the neck and began dragging him toward the back door.  Stiles saw Derek being led along, limping, at the point of Kate’s crossbow with Peter not two steps behind.

“Little harder to explain my breaking and entering if you kill me out here,” Stiles tried, struggling uselessly in the werewolf’s grip.

“Ah, but you downed a section of my fence, did you not?  And you still have a lockpick in your pocket?”

Actually, he had his whole fucking set, along with the fuse from the breaker box.  It wasn’t how he wanted to be remembered, but he thought that if he was going to die looking like a criminal anyway, he might be able to take either Gerard or Kate down with him.  He wasn’t quite sure when he’d get the chance, but it was feeling more and more like he had to try.  Gerard and Kate were extremely wealthy and influential – if anyone could find a way to cover this all up, it would be them.  And at least Stiles wouldn’t have to live very long with blood on his hands.

So he had no intention of going down without a fight, but he didn’t know what to expect from Derek.  Not only was he severely weakened by the torture, but how willing would he be to fight Peter, to fight Kate?  To hate someone you used to love was one thing; to kill them with your bare hands was another.  Stiles had no idea what was running through Derek’s head.

But then Derek glanced back at Stiles, like he was looking for something, and without thinking, Stiles made a signal that he and Scott had devised for situations when they needed to act in unison without talking: he subtly tapped three fingers against his leg.  He knew Derek saw it before Kate shoved Derek forward and he had to turn back around; he just hoped Derek would figure out what it meant when the time came.

Then he realized Peter was staring at him.  Peter had almost certainly seen it, too.  Yet he turned around and kept walking without a word.  Stiles had no idea what that meant, but he was now certain that no matter what they’d done to Peter, he wasn’t the obedient lapdog that he pretended to be.  That Kate seemed to assume he was.

When the werewolf holding him tossed him on to the lawn, now lit up with floodlights, Stiles didn’t even have to pretend to fall; he stumbled to the ground, making sure to catch his weight on his good right hand.  He quickly rolled over, right knee tucked up toward his body and left leg straight.  Kate, Peter, and Derek were to his left, so he let his left arm sprawl to his side, three fingers still outstretched.

“For god’s sake,” Gerard said with a patronizing laugh.  “At least stand up and die like a man.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles spat.  “I’ll die however I want to.”  He tucked his ring finger in, praying Derek was watching.

“Well, I do prefer my prey running.  Puts some sport into it.”  Gerard pulled the gun from his belt and checked the chamber.  “But I am getting older.”

“You two,” Stiles said to the bodyguard wolves on either side of Gerard.  “He will kill you.  He will kill your families.”  He tucked his middle finger in and shifted his right hand closer to his right foot.

“You think they have families?” Gerard said.  “They’re feral omegas pulled from the woods, and they’re well-trained and obedient.”  He pointed to the remote clipped to his belt.  “I’d ask if you have any last words, but I really don’t care.”

Gerard clicked off the safety and raised his arm, aiming the gun.  Stiles tensed to move and began to curl his left index finger in, when—

“Dad, _stop_!”

Everyone turned to see Chris Argent coming out the back door.  Gerard didn’t look all that surprised to see him, but Stiles wondered if anything surprised Gerard.  “I’m just doing what has to be done to protect this family.  What you never had the stomach to do.”

As he looked over his shoulder, Gerard lowered his gun slightly, giving Stiles just enough time to roll to his feet, grabbing the sidearm from his ankle holster on the way up.  At the same time, Derek, suddenly not so injured after all, turned on Kate, ripping the crossbow out of her hand and grabbing her by the throat.

At Kate’s strangled sound, Gerard whipped back around, his gun now aimed at Derek.  He didn’t even seem to see Stiles pointing a weapon at him until Stiles said, “Gerard, drop it.”

“Dad, it’s over,” Chris said, and suddenly people were swarming out the back door – Scott, Isaac, Erica, Boyd.  Chief Martin.  Holy shit.

Gerard pulled the trigger, but his bodyguard was faster, swiping at his arm and sending the shot into the ground by Derek’s feet.  Erica easily snatched the gun from Gerard, and Isaac pulled his bleeding arms back, none too gently, to cuff him.

Stiles lowered his gun.  “Derek, you can—”  But Derek had already let go of Kate and thoroughly crushed the crossbow beneath his foot.

Kate turned to look up at Derek and Stiles could see her deranged grin as she yelled, “Peter, _now_.”

Before Stiles could even raise his gun, Peter’s claws were out and he was springing forward.  Kate’s face barely had time to register surprise before he slashed her throat open like he was swatting a fly.

Derek didn’t even watch her drop to the ground.  With the extra moment it took Peter to move around Kate’s body, Derek shifted as much as he was able and dropped into a defensive stance.  Peter still came at him with enough momentum to knock them both into the dirt.

Stiles reflexively swung around toward the house, bracing himself for the sound of gunfire, but before he could say a word, Isaac was already throwing his arms out and yelling, “They’re too fast – you’ll shoot the wrong one!”

The fact that his co-workers seemed to immediately grasp that there was a “wrong one,” and therefore a “right one,” or at least believed it enough not to open fire, was going to require extensive explanation later, but at that moment, all Stiles could focus on was the battle in front of him.  The two werewolves were such a blur that even from his closer vantage point, he couldn’t get a clean shot at Peter.  At first, Stiles could tell them apart by the fact that Derek was shirtless, but soon they were both covered in blood and so tangled together that Stiles couldn’t even make out which body was the larger of the two.

The closest thing Stiles had ever seen was two meth addicts tweaked out of their minds, clawing and biting at each other, but that was playground tussling compared to this.  This was vicious, entirely _animal_ , nothing like he’d ever seen from Derek before.  For every swipe Derek took at Peter’s legs, trying to knock him to the ground, Peter seemed to be able to sink his teeth into Derek’s arms or shoulders.  Peter jammed his claws into Derek’s side, but Derek just howled and ripped them out, trying to use his grip on Peter’s arm to throw him to the ground.  But as injured as they were, both were somehow managing to protect throats and bellies, healing enough of the rest to keep ripping into each other.

Scott was screaming at Stiles to get away, to join the others back near the house, but Stiles was rooted to the spot.  He’d have to worry later about his fellow officers witnessing this, because he was too busy crying out in sympathy whenever he heard a sound of pain from Derek.

Something was wrong, and it took Stiles far too long to figure out what it was: they were too evenly matched.  Yes, Derek had been healing from the torture, but by the time he disarmed Kate, he was obviously far less injured than he’d been playing at.  And though Peter had almost certainly been confined to the house for the last three years, Derek had been running through the woods.  Stiles didn’t need to have seen Derek fight before to know how powerful he was, and he was technically Peter’s alpha – and still wearing a beta collar, no less.  He should have easily overpowered Peter.

It finally hit Stiles when Derek succeeded in pinning one of Peter’s shoulders to the ground, raised one arm for the killing blow… and then hesitated.  It was only for the merest fraction of a second, but it was just enough for Peter to roll away and get a solid swipe at Derek’s ankle, and then they were locked together again. 

This had to be a fight to the death.  Peter sure as hell wasn’t going to stop for anything less, and thus there was no realistic way for Derek to stop Peter short of killing him.  And, treacherous though he was, Peter was the last of Derek’s family, the last living thing connecting him to his parents and sister.  Even if he wasn’t consciously thinking it, Derek didn’t want any more family blood on his hands, and his hesitance was going to get him killed. 

Like hell was Stiles going to let that happen.

Without thinking, he stepped forward.  He didn’t know how to get Peter’s attention away from Derek without distracting Derek, too, so he had to get close enough to be able to tell them apart.  Distantly, he heard Scott start screaming, but he ignored it.  As soon as he saw eyes that glowed blue instead of red, he raised his gun and fired.

The first wolfsbane bullet caught Peter in the shoulder and shocked him into stillness long enough for Stiles to put another one in his heart.  He surged up, the last lunge of a dying animal, and Stiles shouted “Derek, get back!”  He did, and Stiles fired three more shots in quick succession, each of them neatly piercing Peter’s forehead.  He crumpled to the ground, but Stiles didn’t look away or lower his gun until he was sure the life was gone from Peter’s eyes, his body shifted back to human.

When Stiles did look away, he saw Derek had fallen on his back and had also shifted completely into human form again.  Though his wounds were already healing, he was gasping for breath, looking stricken and horrified and relieved all at the same time.  But he wasn’t looking at Peter; he was looking up at Stiles.  “Thank you” was all he said.

&&&

Stiles wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and throw his arms around Derek and promise to take him away from this hellish place – a promise he could follow through on this time.  But in addition to all of Stiles’ colleagues milling around, there were two dead bodies to deal with and dozens of untagged werewolves left without a legal owner.  Still, Derek’s safety came first.

Before the paramedics could get there and have an inevitable shit fit over Stiles, he led Derek – by the hand, he didn’t care who saw – towards Isaac.  Derek would need to give a statement and probably be questioned, and Stiles trusted Isaac to be the most sensitive about it.

“I wish I could go with you,” Stiles said quietly before they were within range of the other cops, who were trying to figure out what the hell they needed to do next.  “But I’m going to have to give my own version of what happened.”  And probably get heavily censured, if not fired, for breaking into the Argents’ estate, but he left that part out.  “Isaac – Officer Lahey – should only ask questions about tonight and your previous, um, situation with the Argents.  You don’t have to tell him… certain details if you don’t want to.  They’ll only be looking for evidence against Gerard.”

Derek nodded slowly.  Kate was dead; there was no need to build a case against her.  Derek could choose how much, if anything, he wanted on the official record.

“Isaac probably won’t ask you about the last few weeks, but if he does, if anybody does in an official capacity, you can tell them you’ve been staying with me.  It’s going to come out anyway.  As long as you don’t give details about… where we were headed in the Jeep, or my contact.”

“I know that much,” Derek muttered, rolling his eyes, and Stiles had to stifle the urge to throw his arms around him, bury his face against Derek’s neck.

Derek seemed to have healed more or less completely, so he didn’t need any medical attention, and Stiles just wanted to get him away from the estate as soon as possible.  Not that the station was much better – and Gerard would be there, though locked up – but Isaac would treat Derek like any other witness and keep him safe until Stiles could get there.

Stiles pulled Isaac aside.  “Derek needs to go down to the station and give his statement.  You okay to handle that?”

Isaac’s eyes darted quickly over at Derek, then back to Stiles.  Isaac was nervous – after all, he’d just watched Derek grow fangs and claws in a brutal, gruesome fight to the death, and even though Derek was healed, his clothes were mangled and soaked with blood.  But Isaac was tougher than he looked.  Hell, he was the one who managed to capture Derek in the first place, and once this all had died down, Stiles was really going to have to ask about that.

But Isaac just nodded.  “I’ll take him over there, see if I can find him some extra clothes before we talk.”

“The stuff in my car when it crashed wasn’t at the hospital, so if any of it survived, it’s probably at the station.  There should be clothes that fit Derek in one of the bags.”  Isaac’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t ask.  “I’ll explain later.  Just make sure he’s safe.  Don’t let anyone call Services.”

Isaac cracked a small smile.  “I’ll handcuff myself to him if I have to.”

Stiles thanked him and brought Derek over.  The two stared at each other for an awkward moment before Derek put out his hand and Isaac shook it.  When they were done, Stiles put a hand on Derek’s arm.  “I’ve got a lot to sort out here, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You just broke into the Argents’ house and faced down Kate and Gerard,” he pointed out.  “I’m not worried about you coming to get me at the police station.”

Stiles gave Derek’s arm a quick squeeze and let him go, watched him walk back through the house with Isaac.  He hated to let Derek out of his sight after all of this, but there was so much more he had to deal with now, things that hadn’t even entered his mind when all he could think about was getting Derek out and stopping the Argents.  Like an entire house full of malnourished werewolves with no tags, no official owners, and nowhere to go but Services.

But the paramedics waylaid him before he could do anything.  They poked and prodded and declared his ribs to be bruised – Stiles thanked them for _that_ totally unexpected and helpful insight.  He was going to need another X-ray of his wrist and probably have it reset, and Stiles had to promise them three times that he would get it done as soon as he left before they’d give him some (annoyingly mild) painkillers and let him go.

Looking around the scene, Stiles wasn’t even sure what he was at that point.  A cop?  A suspect?  A witness?  But so much else was going on that nobody was paying much attention to him.  Chief Martin wasn’t anywhere to be found, and Scott was directing new arrivals: more officers, the evidence collection team, the coroner.  He looked to be doing a good job of it, too – he had his Very Serious In-Charge face on, which Stiles found profoundly amusing, but it seemed to be working.

Chris Argent was still standing in the backyard, staring blankly at the house.  He was just about the last person that Stiles wanted to talk to right then, but he was also the only hope for the werewolves in the basement.  Stiles just stood beside him for a long time, not sure how to phrase what he had to ask without angrily accusing Chris of enabling all of this.

Surprisingly, it was Chris who spoke first.  “I grew up in this house.  It wasn’t—it was nothing like this.”  He turned to face Stiles, and at least he didn’t seem to be seeking absolution, because Stiles was in no mood to grant it.  “When my mother passed, everything changed.  My father, he wanted to go back to the old ways.  I thought cutting him off, shielding Allison from him was enough.”

He shook his head, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Whatever testimony, whatever cooperation you need from me, you’ve got it.  Even if it means I’m facing criminal charges.  Allison is already furious with me.  I don’t want my granddaughter growing up—”

He cut himself off, took a deep breath, then started again, meeting Stiles’ eyes this time.  “The Chief arrested my father and took him in by herself.  I tried to say something, suggest she might want somebody else with her, but… well, I may have finally met someone more terrifying than my father.”

Despite himself, Stiles couldn’t help but smile.  Short of the Spanish Inquisition, he couldn’t think of a more appropriate punishment until Gerard could be brought to trial.  As far as Chris was concerned, it was unlikely they’d be able to prove criminal negligence, but he was worth far more to Stiles on the outside than he would be in prison, anyway.  “Chris, with Kate… gone, and your father out of the picture, I’m assuming care of the estate falls to you?”

“I’d have to double-check the paperwork, but yes, it should, which means…”

“All the werewolves Gerard owned are yours now.”

Chris looked at Stiles, uncertain.  “Are they?  I know most of them are untagged, so do they actually belong to anyone?”

“Chris,” Stiles said sternly, all but staring the other man down.  “Right now, they’re together and they’re in your house.  Even though they’re not tagged, I’m pretty sure you can claim common law ownership.  If you don’t, Services steps in.  Packs and families get broken apart.  The lucky ones might be sold off.  The rest will be taken to the state compound.”

Chris scrubbed a hand through his hair.  “But what do I do with them?  A lot of them are in bad shape, and I can’t house them all with me.  Even if I had space, they’ll freeze my father’s bank accounts, and I don’t have the money to keep this many wers for long.”

Stiles took a deep breath.  He was risking a lot by bringing Chris in on this, but it was the only option.  “You don’t have to keep them.  You take legal possession, give them the whole of the estate to stay in, and you give me a week.  There’s a place for them up north.  I just have to arrange transport to get them there.”

“The sanctuary,” Chris said with a nod.  “I’ve heard rumors.  I can get vans, buses—”

“ _No_.  You can’t be involved.  You’ll forgive me if I don’t want to give you the names of people who are risking their lives for the werewolves you let be hunted like animals,” Stiles spat, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  “Not to mention the fact that they aren’t going to follow you anywhere, let alone allow you to herd them on to buses.”

Chris looked like he wanted to say something, defend himself, but Stiles didn’t want to hear it, now or ever.  “Don’t.  I understand you wanting to protect your family, but I will never, ever understand how you let it get to this.  Now would be a really good time, for the sake of your daughter and your granddaughter, for you to start doing the right thing.”

Nodding solemnly, Chris said, “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.  I don’t even know what the right thing is anymore.  When Allison called me, told me what she knew… I have a lot to make up for, Detective.  I know that.”

Stiles took a moment to let the anger wash out of him, to try to hold on to the slight glimmer of relief at Chris’ cooperation.  He sounded sincere, and Allison would hold him to his promises.  “This is a start.  A good one.  Now I need to talk to the werewolves, tell them the plan.”

“How many wers—?”

“Werewolves, Chris.  That’s what they are.  That’s what they want to be called.”  Then he walked off, leaving Chris to whatever mental penance he was trying to pay.

Down in the basement, Boyd, Erica, and a few other officers were freeing the wolves from their shock collars, fitting them with temporary plain silver collars brought in from the station.  Stiles winced to see the new collars being locked on, but it was already astonishing that Chief Martin had decided to deal with this internally rather than just calling Services.  It was slow going, though, since the locks on the shock collars were extremely complex.  But Erica was even better with a lockpick than Stiles, so nobody was discussing welding torches or circular saws.

The alpha Stiles had spoken to earlier – it seemed like a week ago, though it had only been about two hours – was organizing her pack, making sure they’d all get the shock collars taken off.  Stiles pulled her aside to speak with her.

“So you’re not as stupid as you look, boy,” she said, but it was with unquestioning approval.

“No ma’am, I’m every bit as stupid as I look.  I just have some very good friends.”  Then he outlined the plan, from Chris’ claim of ownership – which all the adult wolves would have to agree to, if only nominally – to having the run of the house to the sanctuary up north.

“I’ll be checking in on you, making sure you have everything you need before you make the trip.  And if not me” – _because I’ve been arrested for breaking and entering_ , Stiles omitted – “then my partner, Scott McCall.  We may ask you to make a statement to help our case against Gerard, but we can send an officer here to get it in writing.  There’ll be no need to take you into the station.  And you won’t have to deal directly with any of the Argents, including Chris.  I’ll make sure of that.”

The alpha nodded.  “I haven’t seen much of Chris since he was a boy.  I never knew why he left, or why we so rarely saw him and his daughter.  The hunting of the Hale pack began years after the last time he came here.”

“He wouldn’t hunt with Gerard.  But he knew it was happening and did nothing to stop it,” Stiles said bitterly.

“I wouldn’t judge him too harshly, child,” she said gently, and it shocked the hell out of Stiles.  “We all have blind spots for those we love.  Our families.  Our pack.  Our mates.”

Stiles lowered his eyes and said, “Yes, ma’am,” though he remained unconvinced.

It wasn’t until he was back outside that he realized he didn’t tell her that Derek would be joining them up north.

&&&

Of all the strange things Stiles saw that night, none beat finally walking with Scott back out the front door of the house to his squad car, only to see Allison look up from the back seat and give them a handcuffed wave.  Stiles could see her mouth _Hi sweetie!_ to Scott through the glass.

Stiles slid into the passenger seat and watched the sun begin to break over the horizon.  “If this is some extremely ill-timed attempt to spice up your post-baby sex life, please let me out of the car and just run me over.”

Scott said, “Ew, no,” at the same time Allison said, “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Have you been in here the whole time?” Stiles craned his head around to ask.

“Pretty much.  But I napped for most of it.  Best sleep I’ve gotten in weeks.”

Once they were on the road, Stiles scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, shoving back his exhaustion and mustering as much fake cheeriness as he could to ask, “Okay, which one of you wants to tell me what the _fuck_ happened back there?”

Scott let out a weary sigh.  “Right after we left the house, Allison dropped the baby off with my mom and called her father,” he grumbled.

It was obvious from his tone of voice that Allison had not let him in on her plan.  Well, at least he hadn’t been hiding anything from Stiles.  Before Stiles could ask more, Allison interjected, “That’s because you” – she pointed at Stiles – “were going to get yourself killed, and _you_ ” – she poked the back of Scott’s head through the metal grill separating the seats – “would have rushed right in there after him, also getting yourself killed.  And I am not changing diapers by myself.”

“You didn’t feel you needed to voice your concerns, I don’t know, before this shit all went down?” Stiles asked incredulously.

“Would it have stopped you?” she asked.  Stiles didn’t feel like he needed to say anything to that.  “I know you don’t think much of my dad, Stiles, but he’s _my dad_.  I’m his only daughter.  When I say, ‘Daddy, will you please stop your father and sister from killing my husband’s idiot of a best friend and also probably my idiot of a husband,’ he listens.”

“You could’ve at least told _me_ what you were going to do,” Scott mumbled.

“How fast would you have turned around and told Tweedledum here?”  She paused.  “I’m sorry, Stiles.  I’m just… if I can’t be snarky about this right now, I’m going to lose it.  I helped you out the best I could beforehand because I knew you were going no matter what.  And you were incredibly brave and noble to go in there by yourself, but they already tried to _run you over_ once.  There was no way you and Derek were getting out alive without help that you wouldn’t have accepted if you’d known about it.”

Stiles belatedly realized he should’ve been collecting nickels for every time someone had insulted his intelligence in the past few hours.  And from this side of things, he could let himself acknowledge how foolish he’d been, how rash.  But if he had to do it all over again with the information he’d had at the time… well, he’d probably do the same thing.  “Point taken,” he admitted.  “And the handcuffs?”

When Stiles looked back, Allison was grinning.  “The key my dad had to the front door didn’t work anymore – Gerard probably changed the lock a long time ago – plus there were about a million deadbolts.  And my dad doesn’t own the house, so the police couldn’t legally bust the door down.”

“Which is when my wife decided to begin her criminal career,” Scott griped.

“I broke in through the window.  And since you guys don’t need a warrant if you’re in hot pursuit of a fleeing criminal, everyone could come right in after me.”

“The fact that she went around and opened the front door helped,” Scott admitted grudgingly.  “You can see that she’s quite proud of herself.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first,” Allison shot back.  “Anyway, my dad had filled your boss in as much as he could on the way, and they agreed to send him in first to try to reason with Gerard.”  Her smile faltered.  “We thought… my dad thought… Gerard would listen to him.  We didn’t know it had escalated so fast.  We should have gotten their sooner.  I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles shook his head.  “If you’d broken in while we were still inside the house, Gerard would probably have just shot you or sicced one of his bodyguards on you before he even bothered to figure out who you were.  You couldn’t have timed it any better if you’d tried, actually.  Excellent dramatic entrance by the entire Beacon Hills PD, by the way.  Though I don’t guess you got to see it.”

“No.  The Chief didn’t want anyone out back who wasn’t police or my dad.”  Her voice softened.  “Scott told me what happened.  That Peter killed Aunt Kate and attacked Derek.  That you put yourself in the middle of a wer dominance fight to save Derek.  I’m so glad Derek’s okay.”

Stiles closed his eyes and saw Peter’s utterly calm, placid expression as he’d slit Kate’s throat, Derek’s mix of relief and loss after Stiles had shot Peter.  _Was_ Derek going to be okay?  To Allison, it was just a fight over who got to be alpha.  And Allison was more sympathetic than most.  Stiles didn’t even know how to begin to explain what Derek had gone through – he wasn’t sure that he’d ever fully understand, himself – but Allison hadn’t seen the basement, the holding cells, the shock collars.  And as painful as it would be, she should.  Everyone should.  Stiles didn’t know how many more hunters were out there, but it was unlikely Gerard would give up any names.

After that, they drove in silence for a long while, until Scott finally pulled up to the station.  Isaac’s cruiser was out front and there were no Services vehicles in sight.

“Stiles,” Allison said softly.  “What’s going to happen to Derek now?”

It was the very question Stiles had been trying to put out of his mind, at least until he could start clearing this mess up and actually talk to Derek.  “I don’t know,” he said.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: themes of slavery

Facing Chief Martin alone was always a little bit like being sent to the principal’s office – if the principal were a frighteningly brilliant, hot strawberry blonde in inexplicable stilettos.  Stiles fully expected one of those stilettos to wind up jammed between the bones of his foot, but as she took his statement, she was strangely subdued – professional, but not cold.  Not exactly _warm_ , either, but Stiles would definitely take what he could get.  They were all exhausted.

She waited until he was finished before saying, “I’m going to have to put you on unpaid leave until we get this straightened out, since you did technically break into that psychopath’s house.”

“Yes, Chief,” he said, just glad that he hadn’t been fired outright.

“I hope you appreciate that you’ve swamped me in paperwork by doing something inestimably stupid,” she sighed.  _Cha-ching_ – another nickel.  “But you also exposed two homicidal lunatics and probably saved the lives of 37 wers.  Chris spoke to me.  He plans to claim ownership of the wers and make sure they’re cared for.”

Stiles swallowed, terrified to ask his next question.  “And Derek?”

“He’s untagged and wearing a beta collar,” the Chief began, and Stiles’ heart sank.  “That needs to be taken care of.  But since he’s been cooperative and it appears like he’s _been_ taken care of for a while” – she looked sharply at Stiles and he gulped – “I’m releasing him into your custody.  If he shows up here again under the same circumstances, though, you know what has to happen.”

“It won’t,” Stiles said, frantically attempting to nod and shake his head at the same time, thus managing to come off looking like he had serious motor control problems.  So, pretty much his usual behavior around Chief Martin.

“Good,” she said with finality.  “Lahey should be finished with him.  They’ll be waiting for you.”

“Th-thank you,” Stiles stammered.

“Now get out of here, Stilinski.  You look like hell.”

To say Stiles ran from the room would perhaps be uncharitable, if somewhat accurate, but he was legitimately in a rush to get to Derek.  Again, he had to stop himself from simply flinging himself at Derek, what with Isaac standing right there and the sudden uncertainty of whether it was appropriate at all.  But the relief he felt at seeing Derek, uninjured and in mostly-clean clothes, was mirrored in Derek’s face.

Isaac drove them to the gas station where Stiles had left his rental getaway car, since it was currently his only form of transportation.  He would have to decide what to do with it soon, whether to return it and get something his insurance would actually pay for… or use the giant SUV for its intended purpose.

He and Derek didn’t speak on the ride home, but it was more a fatigued silence than an uncomfortable one.  Stiles parked in the garage – the car fit, but barely, and they trudged back into the house in a way that felt strangely familiar.  It became even more familiar when Stiles realized that, once again, Derek had nothing to wear but the clothes on his back.  Stiles hadn’t thought to bring the duffel bags home from the station.

He couldn’t help laughing aloud, and Derek asked “What?”

“You’re welcome to take the first shower,” Stiles chuckled, loopy with exhaustion, “but I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wear my sweatpants again.”

The smile on Derek’s face was faint, but it was there.  “I’ll live.”

Stiles dug out the sweatpants.  He’d washed them since Derek had first worn them, of course, but he wondered, once Derek had shut himself in the bathroom, whether the pants now smelled like both of them.  Stiles tried to push that thought out of his mind, but that left room for all the questions he really didn’t want to think about until he’d slept for about three days straight.

When Stiles heard the water shut off and, soon after, the bathroom door open, he counted to ten before heading in there himself.  Once in the shower, he actually moaned aloud when the water sluiced over his aching body.  It was a little awkward with most of his left forearm double-wrapped in plastic bags, but it wasn’t like he had much hair to wash.  He stood under the spray for a long time until the hot, pounding water had turned his skin a mottled pink and thoroughly drowned any train of thought.

He stayed there until the water began to turn cold, then dried off in the steam-fogged bathroom.  His wrist throbbed with ever-sharpening pain, and he decided to do one more stupid thing – why break the streak now? – and take twice the recommended dose of his painkillers.  It wasn’t like they were even narcotics.

Nearly dead on his feet, Stiles stumbled to his bedroom… and wondered if hallucinations were an unlisted side effect of those pills.  Because sitting tensely on the edge of his bed, hair still damp from the shower, was Derek.  Stiles froze in the doorway.

Derek looked at him in a way Stiles could only describe as… hopeful.  “Can I sleep in here?  With you?”

There were probably dozens of reasons why that was a bad idea, but Stiles couldn’t articulate a single one.  They were both near collapse, neither one having gotten a full night’s sleep since before the full moon three days ago, and Derek was alive and whole and sitting on Stiles’ bed, _asking_ to stay.  Stiles didn’t think he could deny Derek anything at that point, let alone something he wanted so badly himself.

Stiles simply nodded.  As Derek pulled back the blankets and got under the covers, Stiles just dropped his towel as he grabbed pajama pants and a t-shirt out of a drawer, not even caring whether Derek was looking.  He pulled the clothes on clumsily, unwrapping his cast and climbing into bed.  With Derek.

He didn’t even have time to feel awkward, because Derek reached out and drew him close, into the comforting heat of his body.  Stiles turned and nestled his back against Derek’s front so that his cast wouldn’t be trapped uncomfortably between them.  How had Stiles never realized how perfectly they fit together before?  Derek curled an arm around Stiles’ waist, and it was only then that Stiles realized he himself was shaking.  He was glad Derek couldn’t see his cheeks flush – after all that Derek had been through, why was _Stiles_ the one trembling? – but he pulled Derek’s arm tighter around him.  The shaking must have faded away, because without a further thought, Stiles slipped easily into a deep sleep.

&&&

It had been early afternoon by the time they’d finally gotten into bed, so it was dark when Stiles woke.  Dark and hot, like he’d fallen asleep in front of the fireplace.  But no, that wasn’t right.  He hadn’t had a house with a fireplace since he was a kid, and this heat was a living, breathing thing, wrapped around him and – _oh_ – moving, tightening itself so sweetly around Stiles’ body.  God, how long had it been since Stiles had woken up next to another person?  It was heavenly, floating back to wakefulness like this.  It felt so good all over that it took Stiles an embarrassingly long time to realize he was not only aroused, but also rocking his hips mindlessly into the firm body against his.

Before he could even fully process what he was doing, he felt a warm hand glide up his back and a quietly amused voice say, “You’re awake.”

Stiles stilled his hips immediately.  But Derek didn’t pull away – and neither did Stiles.  He gave himself a few long moments to sort everything out before speaking.  The pathetic painkillers were wearing off, because Stiles’ wrist was beginning to hurt even more.  He couldn’t see a clock, but it was so dark that he must’ve been out for hours.  At some point, he’d turned in his sleep to face Derek and they were now pressed chest to chest.  Oh, and Stiles had until just recently been rubbing his raging erection against Derek’s thigh.  “Please tell me I haven’t been humping you in my sleep.”

“No, I could hear your breathing, and I’m pretty sure you were mostly awake when the humping started,” Derek said in that same strangely light tone of voice.

“Oh… well, that’s… only slightly mortifying.”  But Derek still wasn’t pulling away.  Why wasn’t Derek pulling away?  For that matter, why wasn’t Stiles?

“You’re not fleeing in shame,” Derek observed, damn him.

“Um, neither are you.”  Was this conversation actually happening?  It must be, because Derek shifted Stiles a little higher against his body and turned just enough so Stiles could feel an answering hardness pressed against his own hip.  “Oh, okay,” Stiles said stupidly.  “Derek, is this…”

_A good idea?  Disastrous to our collective mental health?_

“I know you’ve wanted me since the first time I scented you,” Derek said, his voice still quiet but much more solemn now.  “I didn’t say anything because it was none of my business, and I thought you might be embarrassed by it.”

Stiles had been ashamed, but not for the reasons Derek probably assumed.  It had nothing to do with the fact that he was a werewolf.  But Derek had never been just a warm body to Stiles, especially not now.  He had suspected that Derek had been used for that body long before Kate actually confirmed it.

Stiles’ eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and he pulled back just enough to be able to look at Derek, touch his face gently.  “I wasn’t – I’m _not_ – embarrassed to want you.  But I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

_By reminding you of her.  By pressuring you into anything.  By starting something I can’t finish when you leave._

“I want this – want _you_ ,” Derek whispered, pressing their foreheads together.  “Is that enough?”

Stiles’ blood burned at the words, and in a perfect world, they would be more than enough.  “You don’t owe me this,” Stiles murmured brokenly.

Derek snorted angrily and ground their hips together hard, forcing a gasp out of Stiles.  “Does this feel like reluctant gratitude to you?”

“Not unless you’ve got a whole fruit basket down your pants,” Stiles moaned.  “Which – oh god – it feels like you might.”  Right, sex had a tendency to short-circuit his brain-to-mouth filter, which was flimsy at the best of times.  It had been long enough that he’d forgotten that.

But Derek just laughed.  Really, honest-to-god belly laughed, which would’ve turned Stiles on even if he hadn’t been pressed so close to Derek that he could feel it vibrate all the way down his body.  When Derek finally stopped, he kissed Stiles’ cheek, lips dragging hotly to whisper in his ear, “Don’t we both deserve something good?”

Stiles’ resolve crumbled like a shoddy sand castle.  Even if they could only have this – this one time together, this one stolen moment – it would be worth it.  And no matter what he’d been through, Derek had the right to ask for what he wanted, and he was asking now, with a slow, deep kiss and hands wrapping around Stiles’ lower back, fingers digging in hard enough to make Stiles moan.

When they broke for air, Derek asked “What do you want?” at the same time Stiles gasped, “Please, just touch me.”  Derek nodded, hands pushing up under Stiles’ t-shirt, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.

Then Derek shifted his weight, putting a little too much pressure on Stiles’ ribs, and Stiles groaned in pain.  Derek jerked back like he’d been burned.  “I forgot, you’re hurt.”

Stiles rolled back to press against Derek.  “Don’t you fucking stop, I swear to god,” he growled, as though he had any way of carrying out a threat.  “Just… be gentle with the ribs?  And the arm.”

Derek nodded again, helping Stiles get his shirt over his head, past the cast and off.  Then he carefully maneuvered them until Stiles was on his back on the bed and Derek was leaning over him, giving Stiles just the barest hint of his weight as they kissed.

But Stiles wanted to touch, too, and he pushed at Derek until they were both on their sides and Stiles could run his good hand all over that thickly-muscled chest he’d been dreaming about.  He was amazed at how smooth the skin was, and quite happily surprised at how sensitive Derek’s nipples were.  In fact, Derek sounded just as surprised when Stiles flicked lightly at one and Derek gasped, hips thrusting forward.

Stiles gave a soft victory cry and kept pushing until Derek was on his back and Stiles could pinch and tug at one of Derek’s nipples while fluttering his tongue over the other.  It was hard to hold himself up on his left elbow, but infinitely worth it for the way Derek was trying so hard not to writhe and utterly failing at it.  And then Derek started saying Stiles’ _name_ , quietly but with such aching desire that Stiles cursed his injured body.  God, how would Derek sound if Stiles could just straddle him right now and ride him for all he was worth?

But when Derek pulled Stiles’ head up to kiss him, folding Stiles’ body carefully in those massive arms, Stiles wasn’t sure he’d survive the intimacy of Derek’s body inside his.  He was having a hard enough time producing rational thought when Derek shoved a hand inside Stiles’ pajama bottoms and got a good, firm grip on his cock.  Here, he didn’t have to be gentle, and Stiles told him so in no uncertain terms.

Through the haze of pleasure, Stiles had to keep reminding himself to check in with Derek, to watch his face for anything he wasn’t saying, any reservations he wasn’t expressing.  But he was looking increasingly needy, so with great determination, Stiles set a hand over Derek’s arm and stuttered out “W-wait.”

Derek stopped, looking alarmed, but Stiles reassured him with a kiss and refused to let him pull his hand away.  Stiles set his own hands on the waistband of Derek’s sweatpants and pushed a little.  “Is this okay?”

Derek nodded and Stiles tugged down – or tried to.  That damned cast kept getting in the way of everything.  It soon became obvious that he needed Derek’s help, and by the time they had managed to push the sweatpants down around Derek’s knees and done the same for Stiles’ pajama pants, they were both laughing, giddy with lust.  When their mouths came crashing back together, clumsily but passionately, Stiles made sure to encircle both of their cocks in his long-fingered grip.  Derek reached down to help him, and soon they were thrusting against each other in the combined circle of their joined hands.

It had been too long and it was far too good for Stiles to last.  He gasped helplessly as their cocks dragged against each other, leaking just enough to make the slide of skin pleasurable.  If Stiles had been thinking, he’d have grabbed the lube from the drawer, but he wasn’t about to let go now, not when he was so close.  “Derek,” he moaned, “I’m—”

“Almost there,” Derek finished for him, and as close as he was, Stiles’ orgasm still took him by surprise, a burst of pleasure so strong that he tightened his fingers and curled his body hard against Derek as he came.  He looked up just in time to see Derek’s eyes flash red, setting off another shudder of bliss as he felt Derek shoot against his stomach.

Derek released his grip first, but didn’t pull away from Stiles.  He lifted his hand to his mouth, and that was _them_ Derek was tasting, _together_ , and it had never been Stiles’ favorite thing, but he took one of Derek’s fingers and licked it clean.  The bitter flavor was worth it, because Derek growled possessively and pulled him in for a hard, deep kiss, any lingering bitterness melting away until it was just the taste of Derek’s mouth.

Stiles meant to grab some tissues – or at least a corner of the sheet – to clean them up, he really did, but Derek didn’t seem bothered or inclined to let him go, even as their kiss devolved into simply laying together, breathing the same air.  And it felt so right, drifting helplessly to sleep again held tight against Derek’s body, Derek’s heartbeat steady and strong under Stiles’ hand.

&&&

Despite all that had happened, the morning light made Stiles enough of a coward to briefly consider just leaving a note.  Derek was sleeping so soundly that Stiles hated to wake him, but Stiles legitimately had somewhere to be.  He found he couldn’t extricate himself from Derek’s arms without waking the other man, and the slight whimper of loss Derek made caused Stiles’ heart to clench.

“I have to go get my wrist looked at,” Stiles whispered, kissing Derek’s forehead and tucking the sheet back around him.  “Then I have to go back by the estate and check on the other packs.”  A half-conscious growl rumbled up through Derek’s chest.  Stiles just barely kept himself from giggling.  “It’s all right.  There’s nobody there to hurt me anymore.  You sleep as long as you need to.  I may be away a while.”

Derek made another small, sad sound, but Stiles stroked his hair until his breathing evened out and he fell back to sleep.

Stiles had to rush to the hospital to keep the appointment Scott’s mom had somehow managed to make with the orthopedist at the last minute, but he wasn’t expecting Mrs. McCall to already be on shift and waiting for Stiles when he arrived.  As soon as she saw him, she wordlessly wrapped her arms around him, and Stiles hugged her back.  She was the closest thing he had to a mom, and she rubbed a comforting hand across his shoulders.

Then she let go of him and cuffed him gently upside the back of the head.

“Ow!” Stiles yelped, more out of indignation than pain.  “Um, _concussion_.”

“Which you wouldn’t have gotten if you’d asked Scott for help a little earlier,” she said, obviously trying hard to hold on to a frown in the face of Stiles’ gobsmacked expression.  “You know my son would follow you into hell itself.  I know you’d do the same for him, but still, please do not go charging into hell without backup again.”

“Believe me, I don’t plan on it,” Stiles said, rubbing the back of his head mostly out of embarrassment.  At least Mrs. McCall hadn’t called him an idiot.  Well, not in so many words.  “I’m actually thinking of taking a nice, cushy desk job.”

“Liar,” she said with an eye roll, but gave him another quick, affectionate squeeze. “The doctor is waiting for you.  He’s been instructed not to give you a good scolding as long as you don’t end up back here a third time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stiles said, meaning it.

Sure enough, the X-ray showed that the fracture had worsened and his wrist had to be reset and recast, but at least he was given decent painkillers this time.  He couldn’t drive while taking them, but Scott, who had also been given a temporary suspension for his role in planning Stiles’ break in, had offered to chauffeur Stiles around.  They took the rented SUV.

“Allison and the baby are with her parents,” Scott said.  Since Chris now had ownership of the estate and no plans to press charges against his daughter for breaking and entering, she had been allowed to go free.  “She said they needed to talk.”

That was the understatement of the millennium, but Stiles kept his opinion to himself, as he actually pretty much owed his life to Allison.  And, to a lesser extent, Chris, which Stiles tried not to think about.

They arrived at the Argent estate just before noon, and Scott looked extremely nervous as they got out of the car.  “It’s just… I’ve never been around this many wers before.”

“Werewolves,” Stiles corrected, “and they know you helped free them.  Plus” – Stiles gave him a giant, manly bear hug, only somewhat inspired by the painkillers – “now you smell like me.”

Scott batted him off.  “And that’s a good thing?”

“Oh, yeah, werewolves love it.  Eau de Stilinski is very in this season.  David Beckham’s doing the ad campaign.”

“But I smell like Allison, too.  And does she have, like, an Argent smell?  Because I think that would be bad.”

“Oh my god, Scott, you’re not going to get eaten,” Stiles groaned.  “If you’re that scared, just stick close to me.  Or wait in the car.”

But once they’d been invited into the house – where children were running around happily, thrilled to have so much room to chase each other – Scott seemed to relax.  Stiles got very thorough hugs from everybody, adults included, and he’d never been so happy to have done something stupid in his life.

The alpha he’d spoken to that night didn’t hug him, but she did press her nose to his cheek, almost like a kiss, but Stiles knew she was scenting him.  As she pulled back, she gave him a sly look that he didn’t have time to interpret before she led him and Scott into the living room.  There, on a wide leather couch, a middle-aged man and a younger woman were waiting for them.

“My pack, the Lopez pack, is the largest here,” she said, “but these are the alphas of the McCaimbridge” – she nodded to the man – “and De Luca packs” – she nodded to the woman.

Stiles shook their hands warmly, trying to show due deference.  “Pleased to meet you.  This is my partner, Scott McCall.  He’s also one of my oldest friends and he— well, the other night would have ended very differently if it weren’t for his help.”

“Our thanks to you, Officer McCall,” said the McCaimbridge alpha, and Scott beamed like a happy puppy.  Stiles had to hand it to him – he could take the tension out of a room like no one else.

“Please, sit,” the De Luca alpha said, gesturing to the love seat, which was easily large enough for both Stiles and Scott.

“I’ve come to find out what you all need,” Stiles began.  “I know there’s some food and clothing in the house, but I think you should plan on staying here at least a week before we can safely transport you.”

“And we’ll be kept together?” the younger woman asked pointedly.

“I can’t guarantee your packs will all be in the same vehicle or leave at the same time, but you’ll all be headed to the same place.  Once you’re there, your living arrangements are up to you.”

“Please don’t think me ungrateful,” the McCaimbridge alpha said, “but how do we know our destination will actually be a safe one?  You’ve offered so little in the way of details.”

“And I wish I could offer you more, but I don’t know them,” Stiles admitted.  “So much is kept secret for a reason.  I can only say that the man who will be arranging this… my parents trusted him, and I’d trust him with my life, if I were in your position.  He’s been helping werewolves for years.”

“Albert, what choice do we have?” the De Luca alpha asked softly.  “The only other option is being sold off and split up.”

“Trust me, that’s the last thing I want to happen,” Stiles said as reassuringly as he could.  “And with the Argents down, people like them will be lying low for a while.  Even Services will want to keep a good image in the press.  It’s the perfect time to transport you all.  Still, traveling in small groups is faster and staggering them will draw less attention.”

The Lopez alpha nodded.  “Officer McCall, will you take note of the McCaimbridge and De Luca packs’ requirements?  I’ve already composed a list, and I wish to speak to Officer Stilinski privately for a moment.”

Stiles was happy to see that Scott nodded without hesitation, but he didn’t quite know what to expect as the older woman led him into a small hallway behind the living room.  When they were alone, she said, “I knew the Hale family very well.  You’ve neglected to mention what will happen to Derek.”

Stiles’ mouth suddenly went dry.  “I, um.  He may be needed for testimony against Gerard, but the plan is for him to go up north, too.  I’m not sure if I’ll be taking him or if he’ll be going up with some of you, but he’ll be with you in the sanctuary.”

“Are you sure that’s what he wants?”

That threw Stiles for a loop.  “Of course.  Why wouldn’t he?”

“Have you asked him?”

“I—no, but—”

“Don’t be foolish.  I could hear your heart when you spoke of sending him north just now.  More importantly, I can smell him on you, and not on any fabric this time.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped open and he could feel himself flush bright red.  He hadn’t had time for a proper shower that morning; he’d just wiped down the best he could with a wet cloth before getting dressed.  It never even occurred to him that he’d be walking into a house full of people who could smell—

“Relax, boy,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.  “It’s only up close that it’s noticeable, and then only because I’m familiar with _his_ scent.”

“It— We— I didn’t mean—”

“I can’t speak for him,” she said firmly, “but the Derek Hale I knew doesn’t need the tentative promise of freedom alone in a strange place.  He needs someone who cares for him.  Whom he can care for.”

It was as if she were cracking open Stiles’ head and laying bare all the thoughts he’d been trying to push aside.  “But what about building a new pack?  A family?  I can’t give him that, and even if I could, he’d have to be tagged.”

“Which is why you need to ask him yourself, and be prepared for either answer.”

Stiles didn’t know what else to do but nod.  The alpha reached in her pocket and handed him a sheet of paper, which he was relieved to see was simply the list of her pack’s needs.  But before they headed back to the others, she squeezed her hand over his, and he could easily feel the superhuman strength there.  “The kindest thing you can do for him right now is ask him what he wants, let him make up his own mind.  And tell him what you’re willing to give.”

Back in the living room, the other two alphas had taken Scott’s pad of paper and were making their own lists – because Scott was being swarmed by children.  One little boy stuck his nose in Scott’s armpit and sniffed.  “You smell like baby.”

“Hey, you’re right!” Scott said, any awkwardness of the situation immediately overtaken by delight at having a new audience to tell about his daughter.  “My wife just had a little girl.  What else do you smell?”

The boy sniffed Scott’s shirt collar and grimaced.  “Baby puke.”

“Yeah, they do that a lot,” Scott said solemnly.  “And that’s probably the _least_ gross thing they do.”

&&&

Scott helped Stiles fill the SUV with provisions for the three packs.  Stiles was pretty sure his credit card was suffering from friction burns by the end of it, but Chris would be paying him back before the bill came in; Allison would make sure of it.

They went back to the estate to deliver the food and clothes (and toys for the kids – that’s what Stiles got for bringing Scott with him: _Please?  Henry will love this, I just know it_ ).  The alphas thanked them, and Stiles gave them his and Scott’s phone numbers and a promise to be in touch soon about the travel.

Then he had to go to Deaton.  He didn’t want to do this over the phone, and Scott knew practically everything anyway.  Besides, he could use Scott’s help in coordinating things, as the orthopedist had also figured out about Stiles’ bruised ribs and ordered bed rest.  But before Stiles told Scott their destination, he said, “Listen, I’m not asking you to lie to Allison, but I don’t want you to tell _anyone_ who my contact is.  I haven’t told anybody – even Derek only knows his name.  They’ve never actually met.  Just… I made a promise that no Argents would be involved in this part, not even Allison.”

“Dude, I don’t tell Allison _everything_.”  Stiles leveled Scott with a significant look.  “No, seriously, that thing senior year with the vat of pickles and the goats?  She doesn’t know that was us.”

Stiles was half-tempted to make Scott pinky swear – it had apparently worked with the Great Goat Caper of 2005 – but he knew he didn’t need to.  Despite Scott’s occasional tendency to blab about personal information, Stiles couldn’t actually think of a single instance when he’d specifically told Scott to keep something to himself and Scott had failed him.

“Take me to Dr. Deaton’s office.  It should be just about closing time when we get there.”

Scott just gaped.  “Dr. Deaton, as in the vet?  As in the guy I worked for all through high school?  _He’s_ the one running the wer…wolf underground railroad?”

“He’s not running it, he’s just the local contact for this area.  Now will you just go already?  The painkillers are starting to wear off and I’m beginning to wonder if I should have told you at all.”

Stiles was mostly joking about that last part, but Scott looked affronted.  “You can trust me, Stiles.  I know how important this is to you.”  Then, quieter, “I remember your mom.  I remember how passionate she was about this.  Your dad, too.  I just didn’t understand because I didn’t know any werewolves.  I didn’t know what the big deal was.”

“Me neither,” Stiles admitted.  “I don’t think I’d ever spoken more than a few words to a werewolf before Derek.”

Scott looked like he wanted to ask something, but mercifully, he just said, “So, Deaton, huh?  I can kind of see that.  He always seemed like he knew more than he was telling me.  I just thought it was because he thought I was a spazz.”

“You _were_ a spazz,” Stiles chuckled.  “Still are.”

When they got to the vet’s office, the last customer of the day was just leaving with a stitched-up, pissed-off looking Pomeranian.  Deaton looked at Stiles first, so he knew what the visit was about, but he immediately turned to Scott.  “Mr. McCall!  It’s been a long time.”

“Uh, please just call me Scott, sir,” Scott said, blushing.

“Fair enough.  As long as you don’t call me ‘sir.’  Come back to my office.  I’ll make us some coffee.”

But when they got back to his office, he didn’t even reach for the coffeemaker.  He just looked at Stiles.  “I don’t see any more kittens.  And I assume this isn’t a social visit.”

“Not as such,” Stiles said, suddenly worried.  His entire plan hinged on Deaton’s willingness and ability to help.

“Well, I know what I’ve seen on the news,” Deaton said, dropping into his desk chair.  “But why don’t you two tell me what actually happened?”

They did, from the ramming of the Jeep on the first getaway attempt to Stiles’ proposed plan for the werewolves at the Argent estate.  “I know I should have checked with you first before promising them anything,” Stiles said, “but I had to get something in motion before Services got involved.”

Deaton nodded evenly.  “I think you were wise to keep Chris out of the transport process, no matter how good his intentions may seem.  And I believe you’re right – while this is still in the papers, we’ve got a better chance of moving those wolves without interference.  There’s just so many at once.”

“I know, and if you need me to drive—”

Deaton laughed.  “Stiles, you’ve done more than enough.”  He inclined his head at Stiles’ cast.  “ _Rest_.  You were also wise to go to Scott for help.”  Beside Stiles, Scott preened a little.  “Let him help you coordinate with the packs.  You’ve got other things to think about.”

Stiles nodded wearily, and they left soon afterward, Scott still grinning and Stiles already starting to feel tired and achy again.  But with the effects of the painkillers wearing off, Stiles was good to drive again, so they went back to the hospital where Scott had left his car that morning.

On the way there, Scott finally breached the topic that Stiles could tell had been burning on his tongue all day.  “So, I couldn’t help but notice that neither you or Deaton mentioned getting Derek to the sanctuary.”

“That’s still the plan,” Stiles said, staring straight ahead.

“But I was half-right before, wasn’t I?  About the secret boyfriend thing.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles snapped.  Then he reconsidered and sighed.  “I don’t know what to do, Scott.  None of this was supposed to happen.  I was supposed to quickly get Derek up north where he could be free, not be a burden to him.  All I can do here is be a constant reminder of his old life.  Of all that pain and death.”

Scott took a moment before speaking again.  “Those first couple of weeks before he ran off into the woods?  You were _happy_ , Stiles.  You were more centered than I’ve seen you since… well, since even before Danny.  And if Derek made you happy, imagine what you did for him.  That’s not even counting the part where you risked your life to save his.”

“So what?” Stiles sighed.

“So maybe you make him happy, too.  You make _me_ happy, and we’re not even… finishing that sentence.”

It wasn’t helped by the returning pain in his body, but Stiles was suddenly annoyed at how lightly Scott seemed to be taking the whole thing.  “Is happiness enough?  When the price is captivity and someone else’s mark of ownership on your skin?”

Scott lifted his left hand from the steering wheel and wiggled his ring finger at Stiles, who laughed bitterly.  “Please tell me you’re not comparing your marriage to actual _slavery_.”

“C’mon, I’m not that clueless.  I’m just saying… this is a kind of mark of ownership, in a way.  But it’s symbolic.  It’s a legal thing, too, but it means what Allison and I want it to mean: that we belong to each other.”

Stiles scoffed.  “There are so many things wrong with that analogy that I don’t even know where to start.  For you and Allison, it goes both ways.  One of you doesn’t _own_ the other one.  And it was both of your decision.  This isn’t mine.  I shouldn’t even factor into it.”

Scott looked like he wanted to refute that, but he didn’t, and they rode the rest of the way to the hospital in silence.  But before Stiles could get out of the car to switch to the driver’s seat, Scott put a hand on his arm.  “Hey, I know I haven’t been around much because of the baby, but I’m always here if you need me.  Not just for organizing werewolf stuff.  And if you want me to just come over and shut up and play Super Smash Brothers for a while, I can totally do that.”

Stiles smiled weakly.  “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.  I mean it.”

&&&

Stiles was half-hoping Derek would be asleep when he got home, even though it was barely dinner time.  Or maybe just gone, leaving a note telling Stiles he’d found a way to go north, sparing them having to drag this out.  Still, he picked up two cheeseburgers on the way home.

Derek was curled up on his couch, reading Asimov this time.  He waited for Stiles to set the food down and sit beside him before putting the book down and – shit – leaning into Stiles to kiss him.

Derek’s mouth was so warm and soft and inviting that it was almost physically painful to push him away.  And the hurt in Derek’s eyes was even worse.  “I’m sorry,” Stiles said quickly.  “Not for last night.  I mean, maybe I _should_ be sorry for last night, but I’m not.  I can’t be.  But if we keep… doing that, there’s no way I’m going to be able to let you go.  I mean – fuck, that didn’t sound right – I’m not going to try to keep you here.  I would never do that.  I just meant… for my own sanity, I can’t do this knowing you’ll be leaving soon.”

Derek nodded slowly and, after a moment of silence, looked at the drive-through bags on the coffee table.  “Is one of those for me?”

Stiles nearly groaned with relief.  At least they could put off talking about it for a little while longer.  He turned on the TV and flipped to the station that sometimes played old Warner Brothers cartoons.  Derek didn’t like most sitcoms – too many pop culture references he’d never been exposed to – but he liked cartoons.  Even that made Stiles’ heart hurt a little, that through everything, there was little bit of childlikeness, of innocence, that had survived in Derek.  It made Stiles want to wrap himself around Derek and never let go.

Instead, he ate his cheeseburger.

Nearly two hours later, Stiles was debating whether to get up to take another dose of painkillers or see if he could just pass out on the couch for the night when he heard Derek say, very quietly, “You could, you know.  Keep me.  If you wanted to.”

Stiles immediately sat upright and shut off the TV.  “Derek, you’re not mine to keep.”

“But I could be.”

“Why are you talking like that?” Stiles asked, genuinely confused.  “I don’t want to own you.  You know that.  You have a chance to be free up north, live however you want.”

“I’m already free.”

“What?  No, you’re not.  You think you could just go walk down the street right now?  Yeah, the Argents are out of the picture, but without the right collar and a tag, you could get picked up by Services at any moment.”

Derek looked at him a long time.  “Is there a part of you that wants to tag me?  Not own me, not have me serve you, but permanently write your name on my skin?  So that even if I went away, I’d still bear your mark?”

Stiles shut his eyes tightly, suddenly holding back tears.  He wanted to lie so badly, to make Derek think there was at least one decent human being in the world.  But he had to tell the truth, to let Derek know what kind of person Stiles really was.  At least it would make Derek’s decision easier.  “Yes,” Stiles gritted out.  “Part of me wants that.  And it makes me sick to know that _any_ part of me is just like the Argents.  That’s why you need to go.”

“Look,” Derek said, but Stiles kept his eyes shut.  “ _Look_.”  When Stiles finally opened his eyes, Derek was holding out the bare underside of his left wrist – where the tag would go.

“I did believe that Kate loved me.”  He said it so matter-of-factly, but still Stiles winced.  “She made me believe it, but never once did she want to put her name on me.  I knew most werewolves were tagged, but I didn’t know yet why my family wasn’t, so I asked her once.  If she’d claim me.  She laughed in my face.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“The Argents owned me but hated the idea of claiming me.  You’re disgusted with the idea of owning me, but you’d want to claim me as yours.”

“Is there a difference?” Stiles asked miserably.

“To werewolves, yes.  We mark our territory, our family, our mates as our own.  Except we do it with scent.  It doesn’t mean we respect those things any less.”

“I’m not a werewolf,” Stiles said, not knowing how else to respond.

“You’ve still marked me with your scent,” Derek said, voice softer than Stiles had ever heard it.

Stiles’ head was buzzing, too full of new information and old emotion to process anything properly.  “Okay, let’s say I… I do tag you.  You’ll have to get locked in an alpha collar.  You won’t really have to be confined to the house anymore, but when you go out on your own, you’ll be looked at with suspicion.  With fear.”

“Not by your friends.  Not by your colleagues.”

“Derek, what are we arguing here?” Stiles asked, suddenly exasperated.  “You have a chance to be free, to start a pack of your own.  You can’t honestly tell me you don’t want that.”

“Of course I want that.  But there are no guarantees, not even at this mysterious sanctuary.  I’ve been chained up, Stiles.  I’ve been hunted.  And I’ve been ‘free’ in the woods, if you could call it that.”

“But you’d be safe up north.”

“I’d be alone.”

“But you wouldn’t have to be!” Stiles said, surprised at the volume of his voice.  “Some of the wolves in the Lopez pack still know you.  And you could… you could meet someone.  Fall in love.  Start a family, have a real pack.”

“And what about you, Stiles?”

That threw him.  “This isn’t about me!”

“Isn’t it?  Because I don’t remember you ever asking me what I want to do.”

Fuck.  Stiles realized he’d pretty much spent this whole time telling Derek what he thought Derek would want.  _Should_ want.  “I’m too afraid of the answer,” Stiles said, far more honest than he meant to be.

“Why?”

“Because the answer will either break my heart or feel like I’m putting you in another cage.”

There it was.  A little obtuse, maybe, but Derek surely knew what Stiles was implying, even as he was trying his hardest not to say the words.  He wanted this to be Derek’s decision and Derek’s only, not muddled by Stiles’ feelings – and he was fucking that up gloriously.

But then Derek asked, “How about you, Stiles?  What do you want?  Not for me, I mean.  Just for yourself.”

 _I want you_.  “I want… I want to stop feeling sorry for myself so much and do something good with my life.  I want to feel like I’m more than just my job.  I don’t want to be lonely.”  _And I want you_.

Derek peered at him closely.  “You don’t want to go back to the way things were before you met me?  Before you saw how badly my kind are treated?  Before you nearly got yourself killed – twice?”

“What?  No.  I mean, yes, I could really do without the bruised ribs and the busted wrist and I think I’d give my left nut to have my Jeep back, but I was so blind before.  So stupid.”

“Blind, yes.  Not stupid.” Derek took Stiles’ good hand in both of his.  “I’ve asked myself over and over again how Isaac caught me that night, how I could have been so careless, why I gave in without much of a fight.  I think… I didn’t know it at the time, but I think I was tired of running.”

It was then Stiles realized how much Derek was speaking about this, speaking at all.  Not easily, exactly, but he was articulating himself like these were the all the words he’d been storing up, and whatever had been holding them back was gone now.  Stiles still couldn’t force himself to look Derek in the eye, but he did squeeze his hands.  “And now?  What do you want, Derek?  Just for you.”

“I want a home.  I’ve missed that so much.  I miss it more than living in the woods.  I can’t have my family back, but I can have a home.  You’ve given me that.  Stiles” – he tilted Stiles’ chin up until he was forced to look at Derek – “if I asked to stay here, would you let me?”

“I don’t want to chain you here,” Stiles said, trying to keep the pain rising up in his chest from spilling into his voice.  “I don’t want you to stay because you think that’s what I want, because you think you’re in my debt.  And most of all, I don’t want you to stay” – his voice broke – “and then resent me for it for the rest of your life.”

Derek was silent for a moment, face unreadable.  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he began gently, “but if we tried this and it didn’t work out, would you let me go up north?”

Stiles knew the tears were falling now, but there was nothing he could do to stop them.  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.  I can’t… I think it would break me if we tried, really tried, and you left.”

“But you’d let me go?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“You’d have every legal right to keep me here if you wanted.  You could force me to stay in the house all day, always be waiting for you when you got home.  But a month from now, a year from now, ten years from now, if I changed my mind, you’d let me go up to the sanctuary.  You’d do everything in your power to make that happen, even drive me there yourself if you had to, wouldn’t you?”

Stiles couldn’t do more than nod.

“That’s why I want to stay.  A month from now, a year from now, ten years from now,” Derek said, kissing Stiles lightly, and Stiles finally fell apart.  His whole body was wracked with sobs, all the emotion he’d kept under tight control for the past month – especially the past few days – finally boiling over.  He’d _killed_ someone, for fuck’s sake.  Even though he had no doubt he’d done the right thing and he’d do it again if he had to, that didn’t erase the fact that he’d taken a life.  But Derek just pulled him close and held him tightly, let him cry and cry until he couldn’t anymore.

When Stiles could finally breathe without shuddering, he realized he had both hands fisted in Derek’s shirt, which was damp with tears and snot, and Stiles was so embarrassed he hid his face against Derek’s shoulder.  “’m sorry,” he muttered.  “You’re the one that’s been through hell and you’re sitting here comforting _me_.”

“You’re scared,” Derek whispered, kissing the top of Stiles’ head.  “You didn’t ask for any of this, and now you don’t want to lose someone else you love.”

Stiles hadn’t even fully admitted it to himself yet, but it was true; he loved Derek.  “How’d you know?” Stiles asked, trying not to sniffle.  “Can you smell it on me?”

“That you love me?” Derek asked incredulously.  “No.  Love’s not a smell.  It’s you hopping an electric fence and breaking into a fucking dungeon when you couldn’t even be sure I was alive.  That’s either love or a serious mental illness.”

“Might be the same thing,” Stiles muttered against Derek’s chest.

“I love you too, you idiot,” Derek said with a laugh, nuzzling into Stiles’ short hair.  “You make me feel like I’m worth something again, and I’ll stay with you as long as you’ll have me.  The rest is just details.”

There were still some pretty major details to work out, but if Derek had decided to stay, then Stiles would do everything in his power to make _that_ happen.  He self-consciously wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, wishing Derek didn’t have to see Stiles’ blotchy red, post-crying face, but Derek didn’t seem fazed in the least.  He kissed Stiles long and deep, and Stiles scrambled until he was properly straddling Derek’s thighs.

The kiss heated up quickly, burning away the last of Stiles’ fear, and Stiles pressed his hips down into Derek’s until the entire world started to shift beneath him.  Stiles nearly yelped in alarm until he realized it was just Derek standing up, hands firmly gripping Stiles’ ass and supporting his weight like it was nothing at all.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, wrapping his legs around Derek’s waist and nipping at the underside of his jaw.  “This should not be so fucking hot.”

Derek’s laughed morphed into a groan at the feeling of Stiles’ teeth.  “Bedroom okay?”

“Bedroom _perfect_.”

Derek didn’t stumble at all, despite the fact that Stiles couldn’t stop kissing him.  He gently set Stiles on the bed, and Stiles twisted so eagerly toward the bedside table that his bruised ribs protested sharply.  Stiles let out a pained hiss.

Derek pushed him to lie back against the pillow.  “Will you let me take care of you?” he asked with a soft kiss.

Stiles’ heart swelled at the look in Derek’s eyes, but all he could manage to say was “Top drawer, left side.”

Derek dug around for a moment and came up with a condom and a bottle of lube.  “For you or for me?” he asked, holding up the condom.

Stiles grinned up at him sweetly, pushing Derek’s hand back toward his chest.  “Thought you said you were going to take care of me.”

Derek looked like it was taking everything he had not to just pounce, and Stiles felt dizzy with lust, with the thrill of being wanted.  But Derek was shockingly gentle, mindful of Stiles’ injured body.  He helped Stiles pull his clothes off, hands gliding over every inch of pale skin they could touch.  He eased Stiles out of his jeans and underwear, something indefinably sexy about the care he took in removing them.

In truth, Stiles didn’t need quite so much pampering, as the way he’d rutted against Derek’s body the previous night had proven, but it felt good to be touched so tenderly.  Especially by Derek, who could rend flesh from bone without a thought but was being so deliberately careful it made Stiles ache, especially in contrast to the way Derek tore off his own clothes as if they’d offended him.

“Come here,” Stiles murmured as he reached out for Derek, and oh, fuck, the feeling of so much warm skin took Stiles’ breath away.  He’d had a little taste of it last night, but it was like comparing a candle to a bonfire, nothing separating their bodies at all, and Stiles tried to put his hands everywhere at once.

Derek kissed him with more patience than Stiles thought possible, arms sliding beneath Stiles’ upper back to pull him closer.  Soon, though, need won out and Derek was sitting back on his heels, circling Stiles’ hole with one slick finger.  Stiles tried to relax, breathe deep, but it was still slow going.  He didn’t usually bother with this when he was alone – and he’d been alone for a long time.

“Okay?” Derek asked, working the tip of his finger in.

“It’s, uh, been a while,” Stiles admitted, cheeks burning.  “Before last night, I mean,” he added, although both were obvious.

“Me too,” Derek said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.  “Before last night.” 

Stiles carefully searched his face for any sign of hesitation, of fear or uncertainty.  For all Stiles knew, the last and only person Derek had been with was Kate, but if he was thinking about her at all, he gave no sign of it, just gentle determination as he worked Stiles open.  That alone was enough to make Stiles relax until Derek could slip in another finger.

Stiles was getting impatient, but he let Derek get three fingers in him because Stiles had felt Derek’s cock in his hand last night, and he was going to need all the prep he could get.  But for all Derek’s patience, when Stiles finally gasped, “Ready,” Derek was rolling on a condom and slicking himself with lightning speed.

He pushed a pillow under Stiles’ hips and ran a gentle hand down Stiles’ side where the skin was mottled with bruises.  Derek pressed a kiss to Stiles’ hip.  “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said with genuine concern.

Stiles reached down and ruffled his hair.  “Believe me, you’ll know.  The key phrase will be ‘ow, ow, stop that.’”

“That works,” Derek chuckled as he climbed over Stiles to kiss him and began to push in.  The stretch made Stiles’ breath catch in his throat, and Derek waited for Stiles’ nod before giving him more.  _Fuck_ , Derek felt huge, but Stiles slowly adjusted until the burn began to subside and he just felt full, so deliciously full that he couldn’t do much more than gasp and cling to Derek’s shoulders.

Finally, he was able to get a leg up around Derek’s hip, rock back onto him, and with a groan, Derek stuttered into motion.  Everything after that was a bit of a blur.  Stiles was thankful that the night before had taken some of the edge off, calmed the urgency enough that they could start off rocking together slowly and build up from there.  Stiles only had to call a time out twice, and Derek readjusted their position and kissed and sucked at Stiles’ neck until he was ready to go again.

Things got a little rougher toward the end, both of them less able to control themselves, but Stiles was so lost in the sweetness of Derek filling him, Derek stroking him, Derek panting soft moans against his skin that any pain felt far away, somewhere apart from Stiles’ body.  He slowly realized that the breath against his neck was coalescing into words, into Derek gasping his name and asking him to come.  Once again, Stiles couldn’t refuse that warm, earnest voice.

Derek gave a shocked moan when Stiles went over, shuddering and clenching around Derek’s cock, and Derek quickly followed him.  The last few thrusts were a little too rough, Derek holding onto him a little too tightly, but it was worth it for the helpless little sound Derek made at the end, the flat of his teeth pressed against Stiles’ jaw.

What Stiles was really dreading was the moment when Derek eased out of him, and though Derek was as careful as he’d been all night, Stiles still wasn’t fully prepared for the emptiness.  But Derek stayed close, lying on his side next to Stiles, cupping Stiles’ face for a long, lazy kiss.

Then Derek did pull away, and Stiles let out a truly mortifying whine before he could stop himself.  “I’ll be right back,” Derek said, his voice teasingly placating, and Stiles half-heartedly tried to nip at his chin when he kissed the tip of Stiles’ nose.

Moving turned out to be far more difficult than Stiles had imagined, and he gave it up after a few tries.  But when Derek came back with not only a washcloth, but also a cup of water and a pill bottle, Stiles suddenly found just enough strength to sit up, even though it made pretty much everything below his neck groan in protest.

“Oh my god,” Stiles moaned, reaching out.  “I so totally love you.”  Then he realized what had just come out of his mouth for the first time.  “I mean, you know I do.  You said it yourself, that I love you.  And not just when you bring me happy pills.  Don’t get me wrong, I could really use the happy pills, and I love you for getting them for me, but I also just love _you_ , y’know.  Independent of pain medication.  But also in conjunction with it.”  He attempted to illustrate by meshing his fingers together.  “It’s all very… congruous?  That’s a word, right?”

Derek frowned and looked at the label on the bottle.  “You’re only getting one of these.”

“But I’m allowed two every twelve hours!  It’s just the sex making me stupid, I swear!”

“One and a half,” Derek said, setting down the cloth and the glass and shaking the pills into his hand.  “And I’ll have to remember that.”

“I’m sure you’ll get plenty of reminders,” Stiles sighed, downing the pills (well, pill and a half) in one gulp.  Derek proceeded to gently wipe him down, though he did take a quick lick at Stiles’ belly before cleaning it with the cloth.  Once he’d settled back down by Stiles’ side, Stiles turned to him and bit lightly at Derek’s lower lip.  “Don’t always expect me to be this passive,” he said, grinning.  “I’m normally a force of nature in the sack.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Derek said, laughing as he nuzzled down Stiles’ neck until he got to the junction of his shoulder.  “So,” he said, not looking up, his voice betraying the slightest amount of uncertainty.  “Does this mean I can stay?”

Stiles very nearly made a crack about Derek asking to stay right after bribing Stiles with really awesome sex, but he caught himself just in time.  Nothing about this was trivial for Derek.  Hell, it was far from trivial for Stiles, too, if he was being honest.  So he just bent his head to kiss the top of Derek’s.  “Of course you can stay.  This is your home, for as long as you want it to be.”

For once, Stiles must have managed to say the right thing at the right time, because Derek surged up and kissed him, hard and messy and grateful.  When they came up for air, Stiles figured he might as well go for broke and murmured “I love you” right up against Derek’s lips.  “Just wanted to get that out there before the narcotics kick in.”

Okay, so he probably should have left that last bit in his head where it belonged, but it made Derek laugh as he pulled the covers up over both of them.  “I believe you,” he said, turning Stiles gently until Derek was spooned at his back.  “And I love you, too.”

This time, Stiles didn’t fall asleep right away, even as deeply relaxed as he was, body and mind.  Instead, he just twined the fingers of his good hand with Derek’s and let himself focus on Derek’s heartbeat, Derek’s breathing.  Eventually, sleep overcame him, but not before he smiled into the darkness and whispered, “Welcome home.”


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: themes of slavery, possessiveness

Stiles hadn’t even dropped his keys in the bowl by the door before he heard a loud “You’re late” from the kitchen.

“I got my cast off today, remember?” Stiles yelled back.  Longest, most annoying six weeks of his life.  He’d gotten his job back after two, with an understanding that he had some kind of disciplinary mark on the equivalent of his permanent record.  He’d also been restricted to desk duty until his wrist healed, and Mrs. McCall was right – Stiles would rather listen to Scott’s lectures on the miracle of lactation on eternal repeat than get stuck behind a desk again.

“Yes, I remembered,” Derek said, coming into the front hallway.  “And you’re late from that, too.”

“Ran some errands,” Stiles said with a shrug.  Derek eyed him suspiciously, but gave him a quick kiss and went back to the kitchen.

Stiles followed him.  “Did you talk to Deaton today?”

“Yeah,” Derek sighed.

“Bad news?”

“He can get transport for the fugitive that’s down at the station, but no one’s willing to take the two feral wolves I met in the woods last week.”

“Can’t say I blame them,” Stiles said, looking over the pile of mail on the table.  “Those guys sounded like assholes.”

“They were born and raised in the woods, Stiles.  They don’t know any different.”

“They slashed up your _face_ ,” Stiles said grumpily.  “I like your face.”

“My face is fine,” Derek said, rolling his eyes, but Stiles went over to take it in his hands, just to check.  Of course there were no marks there, and Derek had probably left the other two with some injuries that would take longer to heal, but still.

Bringing his hands up to cup Derek’s face meant that Derek could see the gauze taped over Stiles’ left wrist.  “What’s this?” Derek asked, bringing Stiles’ left arm down so he could look at it.  “I thought you were all healed by now.”

“I am,” Stiles said, smiling mischievously.

Derek frowned and sniffed at the bandage, his eyes suddenly going wide.  “Can I—?”

“Go ahead.  Just be careful, it’s still fresh.”

Derek peeled back the gauze slowly, with reverence, and Stiles thought he looked like a little kid opening the biggest Christmas present that he’d been saving for last.  On the inside of Stiles’ left wrist, covered by a layer of Vaseline and clear plastic wrap, was the name _Hale_ tattooed in large, bold letters.  It complemented the _Stilinski_ on the same place on Derek’s wrist.

Derek didn’t seem to be able to form words at the moment, so Stiles said, “Have I ever thanked you for having such a short last name?  Because if you’d been part of the McCaimbridge pack, I definitely would’ve passed out.”

“Not McCaimbridge,” Derek growled softly – and not a little possessively – bringing Stiles’ wrist closer to his face.

“Oh my god, you totally want to lick it, don’t you?”  Derek nodded, not looking the least bit ashamed.  “Well, you can’t.  Not for a couple of weeks, ‘til it’s healed.  After that, you can lick it all you wa— _hey_!”

Stiles suddenly found himself being lifted off his feet and tossed over Derek’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  On the one hand, Stiles had been sure to appreciate every day since his body had healed enough for Derek to stop treating him like he was made of porcelain.  On the other hand: potatoes.

But then they were moving toward the bedroom and Derek was growling “Need you to fuck me _right now_ ,” and okay, Stiles could work with that.

“Not the other way around?” Stiles teased, poking at Derek’s ass, which was practically at eye level.  They switched things up often enough, but Stiles was still trying to get a handle on the wolfy, claim-y behavior, see if there was a discernible pattern there when it came to sex.  And Stiles would’ve guessed that the tag would make Derek all red-eyed and dominant.

“Nope,” Derek said simply, and maybe he just felt like getting fucked.  Stiles knew the feeling well.

Derek pitched him down on the bed hard enough that Stiles bounced a little before scrambling up to his knees.  He made sure to re-tape the gauze over his wrist and Derek let out a quiet whine.

“Don’t be like that.  I’ve got to keep it clean,” Stiles said, yanking several layers of shirts over his head at once.  He fixed Derek with his best wicked look.  “But if you’re good, I’ll let you see it just before you come.”

That got him tackled to the bed, Derek scraping his teeth lightly down the center of Stiles’ chest, all the way past his navel to where his pants were being yanked down and possibly torn off.  Before Stiles could even protest the mistreatment of his clothing, Derek’s mouth was on him.  Derek got a few long, wet licks in before sucking Stiles’ cock into his mouth.

Derek always seemed to take particular pleasure in feeling Stiles harden in his hand or his mouth, like he was proud of the effect he had on Stiles, and Stiles was more than happy to encourage him.  Since they’d fooled around that morning, it took a little bit longer than usual, and Stiles enjoyed every second of it, feeling himself swell against Derek’s eager tongue.  The tough part was always stopping Derek if they wanted to do more.

Tonight, though, it was Derek who pulled away when he was satisfied that Stiles was fully hard.  Fuck, he was really desperate for it.  Stiles figured it was about time that he started taking charge.  “Clothes off,” he gasped as he pulled himself up to his knees again.  “ _Slowly_.”

Stiles had never known anyone less self-conscious about their body than Derek, but making him unbutton and unzip instead of yank and tear made him blush a little – just the slightest flush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears – and if there was anything sexier than making Derek blush, Stiles hadn’t found it yet.

“Derek,” Stiles said in a broken whisper, barely even aware that he was slowly stroking his own cock, still wet from Derek’s mouth.  “Do you have any idea what you do to me?  Turn around.”

That made Derek blush even harder, though he tried to hide it as he turned his back to Stiles to pull down his jeans.  But he left the tight black briefs up, and Stiles decided it was time for things to get a little more hands-on.  Specifically, his hands on Derek’s ass.

Stiles groaned as he groped with abandon, shamelessly rubbing his cheek against the dark fabric.  “Now _this_ , this is a thing of beauty.  Oh my god, do you realize I’ve never gotten two good handfuls?  That damn cast always got in the way.  So this is, like, a _moment_.  An experience.”

“Stiles,” Derek grumbled, but Stiles could _hear_ the blush in his voice, along with a not-so-subtle request to get things moving.

“Shhh,” Stiles whispered.  “I’m savoring this.”  And then he could deny himself no longer – he fit both hands over the firm swell of Derek’s ass and squeezed.  “This is _perfection_ , Derek.”

“Then why is it taking you so long to fuck me?” Derek growled.

Stiles laughed, swatting Derek’s backside.  “This ass is mine tonight.  I’ll take my time if I damn well please.”

“ _Yours_ ,” Derek breathed out, and Stiles could actually see some of the tension bleed from Derek’s shoulders.  So that’s what this was about.

“Mine,” Stiles repeated, softer, gently tugging down the back of the briefs and letting Derek ease them over his erection in front.  Even when they were off and kicked away, Derek stayed where he was, and Stiles took the opportunity to press wet, sucking kisses all over the soft, bare skin.

The sounds Derek was making turned needy very quickly, and Stiles took him by the hips and turned him.  Derek’s cock was hard, already starting to get wet at the tip, and Stiles reached up to rub that bit of moisture around with his thumb.  Just that touch made Derek shiver so beautifully, and Stiles had a pretty good idea of what Derek wanted.

Still, he asked, “Hands and knees?” and Derek clambered quickly onto the bed, his breath speeding up audibly.

“Gorgeous,” Stiles whispered, running his hands – both of them – all over Derek.  Over his ass, of course, but also up his back and down his sides, across his shoulders and thighs.  Derek was quivering with need after just a few minutes of it, and Stiles regretted that he had to stop touching Derek to reach for the lube.

Stiles kept a steady hand on the small of Derek’s back as he worked first one, then two fingers into him.  He only got to tease a little – nudging Derek’s prostate, rolling Derek’s balls in his hand – before Derek was pushing back impatiently.  “I’m ready,” Derek said, voice as breathless as Stiles had ever heard it.  “I want to feel it.”

Normally, Stiles might have pinched him, teased him some more, drawn it out, but something felt different about this.  And when Stiles positioned himself behind Derek, gripping Derek’s hips as Stiles thrust in, he got it.  Before, they’d had to work around Stiles’ injuries, and then his cast, and the sex was never any less amazing for it, but Stiles being healthy and whole and bearing Derek’s mark on his skin made this something deeper, something even more indelible than the tattoo.  As Stiles worked his hips flush against Derek’s, one hand on the curve of Derek’s hipbone and the other grasping his shoulder, his body draped over Derek’s, Stiles felt something instinctual surge through him.

With full use of both his hands, he could hold Derek just like he wanted him, get the leverage to roll his hips hard and deep.  Every thrust punched the air out of Stiles’ lungs with a grunt, but he knew Derek could take it, _wanted_ to take it.  Knew Derek was loving it, from the deep groans of _fuck_ and _yes_.  Stiles would’ve gone slowly even if Derek’s body wasn’t fist-tight around his cock; it was just that good, and if he went any faster, this would be over much sooner than either of them wanted.

Stiles pressed his forehead between Derek’s shoulder blades and fucked into him with all his strength.  “Yours,” he gasped against Derek’s skin.  “I’m all yours.”

Derek bucked beneath him, back arching and neck twisting until his throat was bared to Stiles, a distinct counterpoint to Derek’s growl of “ _Mine_.”  When Stiles thrust in deep and bit down on the exposed skin of Derek’s throat, the deep, rumbling vibration in Derek’s chest shot straight through Stiles’ body, right down to where his dick was buried to the hilt inside of Derek.

Stiles felt like he’d been given permission to take what he wanted – and what he really wanted was to rear back, grab Derek by the hips, and pound into him until Derek was _his_.  Derek groaned at the loss of skin-to-skin contact, but keened with pleasure when Stiles’ thrusts lengthened and changed angle.

Derek was spreading his thighs, locking his elbows to push back against Stiles’ pistoning hips, and Stiles felt his impending climax coil tight in his belly.  He gritted his teeth as his toes clenched, his abs and thighs burning and he howled helplessly, doubling over with pleasure as he released deep inside Derek’s body.  His short nails dug into Derek’s skin as he held on, just held on tight.

Stiles hadn’t even gotten his breath back before he was dropping back to sit on his heels, tugging Derek with him to straddle his thighs, their bodies still connected.  Derek was too heavy to hold like this for very long, but he’d been good, _so_ good, and Stiles had made him a promise.  He wrapped his right hand around Derek’s hard, dripping cock and simply extended his left arm out.  Derek ripped the gauze pad off with his teeth, but the plastic wrap stayed in place.  Stiles got in maybe three more strokes before Derek’s whole body jerked silently and Stiles felt wet warmth drip down his hand.

After that, there was nothing for either of them to do but simply collapse.  It was Derek who recovered first, as usual, and dragged them to a more comfortable position on the bed.  But he never did let go of Stiles’ left hand, his thumb stroking the base of Stiles’ palm when Stiles was sure he was desperate to be stroking the actual tattoo.  But there would be time for that, and Derek knew it.  Just the way he looked at it had Stiles considering getting several more of them in all sorts of places, fear of needles be damned.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered after a few long, quiet minutes.  “This is…”

“No more than you deserve,” Stiles said softly.  “I’m just as much yours as you are mine.”

Derek closed his eyes and pressed Stiles’ palm to his face, turning his nose to inhale the scent of ink mixed with Stiles’ skin.  Still, Stiles’ eyes couldn’t help but land on the thick silver collar around Derek’s neck, a visible reminder that, in the eyes of the world, they still weren’t equal.

But things had been set in motion.  Derek met other wolves when he went for runs in the woods – completely legit now that he had an “owner” who allowed it – and worked with the ones who wanted or needed a way out.  The fact that he carried a human’s scent caused some suspicion, as it apparently had with Derek’s two most recent acquaintances, but word had gotten around, even in the woods, and the name “Stilinski” had become well-respected among werewolves.  The tag on Derek’s wrist helped other werewolves to trust him.  And to tell him tall tales about this mysterious Stilinski, who fought hunters bare-handed and could spirit a werewolf to safety in the blink of an eye, which Derek would then repeat with a perfectly straight face to Stiles over dinner.  Stiles was pretty sure Derek was making most of them up just to embarrass the everloving hell out of him, because Stiles harbored no illusions that he was doing any of this on his own.

But with the help of Derek, Scott, Deaton, and others in Deaton’s network that Stiles was beginning to actually meet, they had gotten three full packs of werewolves, plus eight other fugitives, up to the sanctuary in just a month and a half.  Allison was even talking about using the abandoned estate and its spacious grounds as a home for abused strays and fugitives.  That was still a long way off, but Chris had at least seemed receptive to the idea.

And here, in this house, Stiles and Derek were just… Stiles and Derek.  Not everyone accepted their relationship or the freedom Stiles “gave” Derek, but anyone who said a negative word about Derek in Stiles’ presence, or the presence of any of his friends, was quickly shut down.  Stiles still dreamed of Derek one day being able to take the collar off – something he’d since heard wasn’t even permitted at the Alaskan sanctuary – and finding out what he really could do, could be.  Stiles thought he could see the pure wolf in Derek’s eyes sometimes, how it longed to come out and howl. 

He could see it now as they settled back on the bed, something more than mere human satisfaction in Derek’s face.  Derek smiled, and Stiles imagined a huge, powerful, beautiful black wolf cutting swiftly and silently between the trees, stopping only to bay at the full moon before charging on.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Minor note: I changed the structure of the Beacon Hills police from county to municipal because that’s what I’m more familiar with, and also because “Chief Martin” sounds kinkier than “Sheriff Martin.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Oh the river, it's running free](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213230) by [Chiomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi)




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